


Angel of Light

by emmbrancsxx0



Series: Halloween Horror [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Horror, Alternate Universe - Witchcraft, American History, Animal Death, Dubious Consent, Enemies to Lovers, Folklore, Halloween, Horror, Hunter Dean Winchester, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, New England, POV Dean, POV Dean Winchester, Period-Typical Homophobia, Psychological Horror, Religion, Suspense, This is the opposite of a slow burn, Witch Castiel (Supernatural), Witch Hunters, Witchcraft, Witches, all americans have a deep-rooted ancestral fear of the woods, even if you think you don't yes you do, i don't make the rules, i was not about to sit here writing dean winchester saying things, it's the equivalent of lighting a stick of dynamite, like doth and hither so don't at me, not historically accurate language-wise, old timey puritans really think they're special enough, that the actual devil would have any interest in them whatsoever, this is a fast burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-11
Updated: 2020-10-12
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:02:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 31,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26601097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmbrancsxx0/pseuds/emmbrancsxx0
Summary: The Massachusetts Bay Colony, 1692. Dean Winchester is a notorious witch hunter transporting an enigmatic blue-eyed witch to Salem for trial. When they must spend Halloween night in a recently abandon farm, Dean finds himself mysteriously attracted to the dark forces at work on the farm and surrounding woods - and to the witch in his charge.
Relationships: Castiel & Dean Winchester, Castiel/Dean Winchester
Series: Halloween Horror [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1907248
Comments: 90
Kudos: 108





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to the third year of my annual Halloween Horror Deancas Fic! Very special this year, as it is the first AU in the series.
> 
> Basically, I watched "The Witch" on Netflix and I did not care for it at all - so naturally I thought "I'm gonna make a deancas AU about it."
> 
> Posting Schedule:  
> Chapters 1 & 2 - Sunday, 10/11  
> Chapter 3 & 4 - Monday, 10/12
> 
> And, like pretty much all my horror fics, this is unbeta'd so please excuse my horrable grammar.
> 
> Come say hi to me on [tumblr](https://valleydean.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Happy Halloween, everyone!!!

The wooden wheel gave one last, dying scream as the jail wagon lurched to a halt. Dean exhaled, the ghost of his breath appearing in front of his lips before disappearing into the slate gray air that permeated the woods. Around him, the world was rotten with the mulchy scent of decay. The leaves had turned to rust, many of them littering the path, leaving the sharp and spindly branches of the white pines barren. Above the canopy, the sky was the same shade as iron, subduing all the muddled colors of the earth.

Except for one. Except for blue.

“Dean? Why are we stopping?” Sam said behind him. Dean swiveled around to look at his brother. Sam was walking beside the tall, muscled black and gray-spotted horse that pulled the wagon. Her reins were clutched in his hand. Beyond them, a figure sat within the bars, his back turned, shoulders slumped beneath the tan color of his cloak, dark head bowed. Dean blinked away from him, returning his attention to Sam’s knitted brow.

“Do you smell that?” he asked in lieu of an answer.

Beneath the woodsy smell of the trees, there was the scent of smoke. It meant a settlement was nearby, one that could possibly serve as a place to rest their heads for the night. They were still a day outside of Salem, and it was getting closer to sunset. Dean didn’t want to be in the woods when darkness fell. Already, he could feel it creeping in, much too early. His fingers were starting to freeze, no matter how he tried to shove them into the sleeves of his doublet.

Besides, he wouldn’t say no to a hot meal. Something that wasn’t stale bread that he had to scratch the mold off. Even then, the bread had a strange taste. The summer had been damp, yielding a dismal crop for the grain. He’d love some meat.

Sam lifted his chin and sniffed the dank air. “A chimney,” he said after a moment’s pause.

“Exactly. Might be a good place to spend the night.”

“Yeah, but—” Sam’s eyes flashed behind him at their prisoner. “The next round of trials starts tomorrow. If we want to get him in front of the governor in time . . .” He’d dropped his voice when he said it, as if the prisoner didn’t already know where he was headed. And personally, Dean didn’t think it mattered much. He wasn’t on a schedule. The prisoner could languish in a cell for weeks before the next trial for all Dean was concerned. Just as long as he got paid for bringing him in.

“Sam, it’s getting late, so unless we can get the witch to stop the sun from setting—”

The prisoner looked around at that, revealing his profile—a straight nose, a strong jaw, pouting pink lips. His eyes had slid to their corners, looking at Dean. Somehow, his gaze was both menacing and vacant at once. And blue, even in the distance.

Dean pressed his lips together tightly, the chill in his fingers moving up his arms and down his spine. At the same time, he felt heat. It pooled in his cheeks and on the tips of his ears. It prickled the back on his neck.

The witch kept staring at him, and Dean’s pulse picked up. He stared back, telling himself he was challenging the gaze, but a secret part of him knew he was merely frozen under it.

Ravens called to each other in the trees.

“Dean?”

The sound of Sam’s voice brought him back to himself. He shook his head, ripping his eyes away. In his peripheries, he could still see the witch staring at him. Dean pulled his felt hat down to cover his ears.

“We’re stopping for the night,” he told Sam decisively. It wasn’t up for debate. They were both tired. Dean needed sleep—and he needed time away from the witch’s seemingly ever-watchful eyes. More than that, he needed to get out of the woods before nightfall.

Sam let out a heavy breath through his nose but didn’t argue. Dean turned around and began walking again, the fallen leaves crunching under his shoes. The wagon began squealing again as it moved after him. Dean could still feel the witch’s gaze on his back as if it were a physical weight. He didn’t mention it. Sam didn’t need the worry. They’d be rid of their prisoner soon enough.

They walked on against the weakening light, until ahead of them, the trees thinned. A small farm was nestled among the sloping valley. It consisted only of a squat wooden house and a gray, empty animal shed. A field of rye sat beside it, stretching from the back of the house to a pond, its water shuddering as it reflected the sky. Fog was rising up from the pool and slowly drifting along the surface in the direction of the trees.

Wisps of black smoke curled from the stone chimney, and clothes hanging from a line swayed in the wind. As they drew closer, Dean noticed clucking chickens pecking at the soil around a coop. Other than that, the settlement was still and silent.

Their horse nickered as they passed onto the land, and Sam had to tug on her reins to get her to move. Dean barely cast him a glance over his shoulder before walking toward the front door of the house. As he moved, he looked into the windows, but saw no movement inside.

“Stay with the prisoner,” Dean said while he approached the slated door. He lifted his fist, meaning to knock, when he noticed the door was already open an inch. He frowned at it and strained his ears for any sounds beyond. There was nothing.

He opened the door with the flat of his hand. “Hello?”

The inside of the house was empty. The main room consisted of a modest table and chairs, and some cooking implements hanging over the hearth. A fire just barely clung to life within, more smoke than flames. There was another room to the side of the house, likely sleeping quarters, but Dean didn’t investigate—not when there was such a scene before him.

Small piles of clothing sat in heaps around the table. Two were women’s dresses and shifts, bonnets and shoes. A man’s breeches and shirt were there, too, a hat sitting atop them. What looked like a young boy’s clothing sat in another pile. The clothes were sopping, the wood of the floor around them soaked dark as the water seeped into the boards. An open book sat upon the table.

Dean gave a wary look around, checking all the dark corners of the house for signs of life, but the room was devoid of any. His shoes clicked against the floor as he paced inside, careful not to tread on the clothes. He brought his attention to the book. The pages were torn, jagged ripped edges sticking out from the binding.

It was a bible—he knew that. He’d seen the scripture enough in his life to know the shape of it. But he didn’t know why anyone would destroy it, despite his own private questions—the ones he never spoke, not even to Sam, the ones that slipped, frigid and slow, down his back in the darkest nights. The ones he pretended weren’t there when he attended church, when he knelt to say his nightly prayers and did his best to convince himself the Almighty cared enough about him to listen.

Despite all that, he never had the urge to do such a thing to God’s word. The very thought of it made his stomach uneasy. It was a violent act, and violence was something he had no trouble believing in. God’s eyes may not be on the world, but there was one thing Dean knew: the Devil’s were.

He took a closer look at the torn pages, and he realized there was a verse left untouched. The edges around it were sloppy, but meticulously—purposefully—made. He couldn’t read it. He didn’t know how.

“Dean, what—?” Sam cut himself off with a gasp.

Dean rounded on him, irritation spiking. “I told you to watch the prisoner.”

Sam blinked around, alert eyes taking in every inch of the room as he stepped further inside. “What happened here?”

“No idea,” Dean sighed, dropping his shoulders. He should have known Sam wouldn’t listen to him. The witch would be fine for a few minutes on his own. After all, he was locked up and shackled. Even if he did escape, he couldn’t go far.

Sam stepped over a pile of clothing and furrowed his brow down at the defiled bible. “My God,” he breathed out, ever faithful.

“What does it say?” Dean asked. He didn’t know why. It didn’t matter, anyway, and there were more important questions to ask. Though, he supposed, Sam wouldn’t have those answers.

“It’s Corinthians,” he said. “Chapter eleven, verse fourteen.”

Dean may have not been able to read himself, but he knew the verse. He knew every verse. A childhood spent around the pious children of God would do such a thing to any person, he supposed, but his father was adamant about him memorizing the Word. “It’s our greatest weapon against the Adversary and his servants,” John used to tell him after every training session—after ever musket fired, every slash of a blade against strawmen, every arrow embedded into a tree trunk. He taught his sons that God’s might was stronger than any weapon against a witch.

“‘No wonder,’” Sam began to recite, “‘for Satan himself—’”

“’—masquerades as an angel of light,’” Dean finished for him. “I know.”

Sam pressed his lips into a line and looked back to the four sodden piles on the floor. “What do you think happened to them?”

It wasn’t a question Dean could answer. “I don’t know.”

“Do you think they’ll be back?”

Instead of repeating himself, Dean said, “If they do, let’s hope they don’t mind housing us for the night.”

“What?” Sam’s head snapped back up to look at him, aghast. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Dean. Anyone who could do that to scripture—”

Dean held up a palm, trying to placate him. “We have guns, remember?” he said with a wry smirk, doing his best to downplay his own reservations on the matter. This settlement was the only place they’d seen for miles. They didn’t have any other options, no matter how this one unnerved him.

Sam held his gaze for another moment before looking away. There was something he wasn’t saying. He was clenching it behind his teeth.

Dean popped his brows. “Sam?”

Sam let out a breath. “I’ve been thinking—earlier . . . maybe I should ride ahead. I can be in Salem by morning and let them know we’re coming with another prisoner. Maybe they’ll stall the trial until we get him there.”

“Why?” Dean asked, shaking his head. His voice sounded thick to his own ears, a little choked. Something was touching at the back of his neck at the thought of spending the night alone in that place—or, more accurately, alone with the witch. And he didn’t exactly love the idea of Sam riding off into the woods all by himself at night, but his little brother never seemed to be bothered by such things. He’d only call Dean superstitious—and it wasn’t about that. It was about taking precaution.

 _I am cautious_ , Sam would say. It wasn’t worth the argument—but Dean could still try another tactic: “Who cares if we get him there in time? We still get paid.”

Sam pursed his lips like he was frustrated he had to explain. “It’s not about that. The sooner he’s tried, the better. Who knows how many innocent people he could hurt while he’s still alive, even from jail?” There was a pause as he let it sink in, and Dean knew he was right. And then, Sam added, “If he even is a witch.”

Dean’s jaw hardened. He hated when Sam did that—always giving their prisoners the benefit of the doubt. They’d been doing this their whole lives. Sam should know a witch when he sees on.

“He’s a witch,” Dean told him matter-of-factly.

Sam shot him a look. “How could you possibly know that for sure?”

If possible, Dean’s teeth clenched even tighter, causing them to grind together. He couldn’t explain his reasoning to Sam, because then he’d have to tell him about the odd, fiery flush that overcame him whenever he looked at the witch. He’d have to explain to Sam that, whenever he made eye contact with the witch, it was as if he lost time—lost himself—unable to look away from that alluring gaze. He’d have to explain that, every time he blinked, the only thing he saw was blue.

He’d have to explain the thrill that flickered through him at the thought of being alone with the man. And that’s why the very idea of Sam leaving terrified him.

But it didn’t matter. Dean was a professional. He didn’t get hexed. And Sam didn’t need to worry about him.

“Fine,” Dean acquiesced. “You go to Salem, and we’ll let the governor decide his innocence.”

Sam paused, wary. “Are you sure? I mean, what if these people come back—”

“Sam, are you going or not?” he huffed.

Sam considered. He decided, “I’ll go. And I’ll be back by tomorrow with the horse.”

Dean didn’t like it, but he’d allow it. “Okay. Help me get the prisoner off the wagon first.”

The two of them walked back outside, where the horse was hoofing restlessly at the dirt. Behind her, in the wagon, the witch was standing, iron-shackled wrists held up as he wrapped long, slender fingers around the steel bars. It was jarring, seeing the man suddenly on his feet. Dean hadn’t expected it. He ducked his head as he approached, adamant about not meeting the witch’s gaze, despite the tingle of it on his skin. It was piercing thing. He felt it in his bones.

He and Sam rounded the back of the wagon. The chains on the prisoner’s shackles clinked heavily together as he slowly turned to face them.

“Alright,” Sam said, seeming to have no issue looking directly at the man. “We’re going to open the door and take you into the shed for the night. Do you understand?”

The witch didn’t respond. It was unsurprising. He hadn’t spoken a single word since they picked him up. It didn’t seem right. Usually, the men and women they transported wouldn’t shut up. The entire way, all they did was attempt to convince Dean and Sam of their innocence, or plead for their mercy. This man hadn’t made a single sound.

That only furthered Dean’s belief. He remembered his father’s teachings from the _Malleus Maleficarum_. It had spoken about those who kept a stubborn silence. Evil shrouded those who held their tongue, who stood firm. Such witches had their master’s protection, and his favor.

Dean forced himself to stare hard at the witch, eyes snagging on broad shoulders weighed down by the chains. “Don’t try anything funny,” he warned, taking the iron keys of the wagon off his belt. He paused only a moment, telling himself staying the night was for the best, before steeling himself and opening the door with a rusted creak.

The witch stayed at the front of the wagon, his gaze still on them, and Dean had never experienced anything like it. It was intense, as if the man had the power to see through them—or into them. But, at the same time, his eyes were almost sightless—unfocused, barely blinking. They moved around, catching light and motion, but it seemed as though he wasn’t actually seeing anything.

“Get moving,” Dean barked, “unless you want to spend the night in the cold.”

The witch slouched and stepped forward, the wagon shifting beneath his weight with every stride. When he got to the back, Sam offered a hand to help him down. The man glared, not accepting it. He jumped down, boots thudding on the packed dirt.

Dean wouldn’t give him a moment’s chance to escape. Immediately, he grabbed the witch’s arm tightly. It was a mistake. Even through the man’s cloak, he could feel the heat of his body. The witch’s head snapped to him, expression tensed and defiant. Dean realized his own lips had fallen open.

He shook himself, fingers gripping the witch tighter. “Let’s move,” he ordered, pushing the witch ahead. The witch glowered once more before turning and following Sam toward the shed. Once there, they had him sit against the back wall on the hay-littered ground, and Sam undid one shackle. He wrapped the chain around a support beam before clasping the man’s wrist again.

Dean barely watched any of it. His eyes were fixed on the witch’s neck. When Sam pulled his arm to bind him again, the neckline of the man’s shirt stretched, revealing the hollow of his throat and a protruding collar bone under tanned skin. Dean’s throat felt dry suddenly.

And then Sam said, “That should do it.” It broke the spell. Dean blinked himself right. His eyes lifted, finding the witch was staring back at him, his face only inches away.

Dean swallowed hard. He realized his fingers were clutching the witch, and he told himself it was so the man couldn’t escape. But, the whole time Sam worked, the witch never once attempted it. He didn’t even pull on the chain to test the beam’s strength when Dean and Sam stepped back.

He just stared up at them, expression blank. Dean wondered what was wrong with him.

Sam left the shed first. Dean lingered for a moment longer, pondering the man, before following him out.

When he found his brother, Sam was taking the horse out of the wagon’s harness. “You should take some bread,” Sam told him, nodding to the bags hanging from the saddle.

Dean tried not to groan. “Right. More bread. Great,” he intoned, but fished for their rations, anyway. Hopefully he’d get that warm meal he’d been hoping for once they reached Salem.

“And make sure you feed him,” Sam reminded him, nodding his chin back to the shed.

Dean huffed. “Don’t worry, I won’t let him starve before we reach Salem,” he promised. “He’s no good to us dead.”

Once the horse was free of the wagon, Sam swung up into the saddle. His orange cloak pooled over the horse’s rump. He looked down at Dean, concern written on his face. “You’re _sure_ you’re okay on your own?”

Dean sighed heavily, breath clouding around him. He ran his tongue over his teeth and turned his head back to the shed. He couldn’t see the man within, but the white column of his throat flashed before Dean’s eyes. The way his Adam’s apple had bounced when he swallowed. The black scruff on his angular jaw.

“Yeah,” he said, tone gruff. He licked moisture back into his lips and brought his attention to Sam. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

If Sam noticed Dean’s apprehension, he didn’t comment on it. “It’s just,” he responded. “Tomorrow’s Halloween, you know?”

Dean was aware of that. Or, more important, he was aware of the anniversary that fell three days from now. Anger spiked in his chest.

“And?” he challenged.

The line of Sam’s mouth was a mix of pity and worry. “Just be careful,” he said.

Dean tried to tame the fire in his heart with a pushed grin. “You know me,” he laughed, earning himself an eyeroll. “Now, go on. I’ll see you tomorrow. And stick to the roads, alright? You don’t need to get lost in the woods by yourself.”

Sam let out a breath of laughter, shaking his head. “Yeah, Dean. I know.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“I was eight,” Sam defended. “And I was only gone for an hour.”

An hour had been long enough for John’s ire to rear its head. It was long enough for Dean to learn his lesson: watch out for Sam.

Dean still remembered the terror in Sam’s cries, echoing off the trees as he called Dean’s name. He still remembered the choked terror in the hollow of his own chest as he ran through the dark.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Sam said next. Dean hummed and nodded. He took a step back as Sam wheeled the horse around. Hooves pounded on the path as Sam rode off, the sounds of them lasting even after the shape of Sam had blended into the deepening twilight. Dean squinted, trying to pick him out, but he was gone.

He turned, hands on hips, back to the house, pausing only momentarily to cast a lingering glance at the shed. A chill rocked Dean’s spine. He pulled back his shoulders and went into the house, intent on finding a candle before the last bit of light was completely gone.

///

The wind whispered as it swept across the rye. Dean walked along the wall of night-tinted golden wheat, the chickens clucking as they scattered away from his feet with each step. Their coop was in the pen near the shed, and Dean tried to keep his gaze on it instead of the shadowy opening of the makeshift prison.

Above, the clouds had parted, creating a wispy veil around the bright silver dish of the autumn moon. At the bottom of the slope, the pond sat, a pitch-black black smudge, drowning the light’s reflection. Beyond it were the woods, its trees towering over the land, the spaces between the trunks warped by the darkness, as deep and empty as a freshly dug grave.

Try as he might, his eyes continuously wandered back to the tree line as if pulled by an invisible string. He didn’t let himself shudder at the thought of the dark, at the howling wolves within—at the woods, that he felt in his bones had stood there since the beginning of time, a black wall of gnarled wood, its gaping maw swallowing up all light and sound.

By the time he’d found a candle, added wood to the fire in the hearth, and moved the soaked clothing and destroyed bible to a pile in the corner of the house, his stomach was growling. The loaf of bread Sam had left him sat on the table, and Dean thought he’d rather go hungry than choke it down one more time. Of course, that was before he remembered the chickens, which meant there were bound to be eggs.

He hoped the settlers wouldn’t mind him eating a couple when they returned. If they returned. Dean honestly wasn’t sure if he hoped for it. Because he didn’t know why they’d left in the first place—and he didn’t know what state they’d be in if they came back. He kept his flintlock pistol and knife on him at all times, just in case he needed to be prepared.

When he reached the coop, he crouched down, peering inside. It was dark within, and he couldn’t make out any movement, leaving the eggs unguarded. He reached inside, blindly feeling around, his fingertips catching straw, until they brushed against the smooth shell of an egg. He picked it up and drew back his hand, his stomach growling like it knew food was close.

His eyes landed on the wall of the shed. He couldn’t hear any shifting from within, but he could picture the man inside. Sitting alone, unmoving, eyes flickering against the darkness. Dean shook the thought away. Something was touching the back of his neck. It was warm, like dripping wax. He rubbed at it with his hand, quelling the sensation.

He remembered what Sam had said about not letting the witch starve.

Dean sighed and reached back into the coop, pulling out a second egg.

Something moved behind him. Dean heard it, a rustle in the rye. Still crouched, he quickly looked over his shoulder, eyes alert as they scanned the farm. There was nothing except the chickens moving.

Slowly, he got to his feet, the eggs in one hand, the fingers of his other twitching toward the knife on his belt. He hardly dared to blink as he inspected the wheat field for any signs of life. The stalks stared back, shivering only for the wind. The narrow path leading through them toward the water was empty. Dean told himself it had just been the breeze, or maybe a small animal, that had made the sound.

But he couldn’t be sure.

He paced closer to the field, shoulders back, muscles tense, mind on high-alert, until he reached the start of the path. Something buzzed at the back of his head, a strange static urging him onward. He could feel it in his feet, the want to walk through the rye. And yet, a crater had opened in his gut, cautioning him against it.

He turned his eyes on the crop itself, inspecting the flowers. Something was wrong with them. Black growths were sprouting, some small globs, others hanging from the stalks. He brought his hand up to squeeze at one of the growths, finding it sticky and wet to the touch. He frowned and rubbed his fingers together in an attempt to get rid of the sensation, but it remained, still tacky on his skin.

He pressed his brows together, sight flickering from one stalk to the other. It seemed as if the entire field had gone rotten.

Deciding it wasn’t any of his concern, Dean turned back to the house. The inside was illuminated by the orange light that cast deep shadows on the floor, twisting the silhouettes of the furniture. The corners of the room were lost to darkness. Dean plucked a pan off a hook hanging over the fireplace, the iron of it clattering in the movement, and brought it back to the table.

His gut was complaining, urging him to hurry up in anticipation of something to eat. He cracked an egg on the side of the pan and split the shell.

And he instantly recoiled.

Instead of a yoke, something putrid had dropped from the egg. It was thick and black, like ink. The stench coming from it was of sharp decay. Dean gagged. He flung the shells onto the table, barely noticing them crack and crumble under the impact. He breathed into his sleeve in an attempt to clear his nose of the smell.

When he thought he could stomach it, he lowered his arm, expression twisted in disgust as he looked down at the yoke. “The hell?” he muttered. His eyes moved to the second egg, sitting innocuously on the table. He wondered if it was worth cracking it open.

Steeling himself, he picked it up and shattered it against the pan. His hopes of something fresh to eat were dashed when the same black goo slid sickeningly out.

“Jesus,” he hissed, pushing the pan away, wanting to get it far from him. He couldn’t stop looking at it, both fascination and disgust warring within him. To no one but himself, he complained, “What, is everything on this farm rotten?”

How had the inhabitants lived like that? With fungus on their rye and sick chickens? Maybe that was what drove them away. He was beginning to think Sam had been right about not staying the night.

He thought about what his father might say, a sentiment echoed by the villagers of every town Dean had ever passed through. John would say the Devil had cursed this family and their farm; he’d tell Dean to pray, to beg for God’s protection.

Dean wondered if God could protect him against an empty stomach.

He sighed loudly, dropping his shoulders in defeat. He looked at the cloth-wrapped bread, and he tried not to groan when he snatched it up.

It was stale and tough, but Dean managed to cut two slices off the loaf. Taking the candle with him, he kept one slice in his hand, heading back outside to the shed, as he held his breath and wrestled a bite from the other. It was chalky in his mouth, and it left a subtle sour aftertaste with every swallow. It only furthered the rancid scent of the eggs trapped in his nostrils. His temples were beginning to throb.

With every step closer to the shed, his heart traveled further upward, until it was lodged in his throat. The hairs on the back of his neck were raised, and he felt the witch knew he was coming—could somehow see through the walls and was staring at Dean with those cold blue eyes.

Dean’s teeth were on edge by the time he reached the mouth of the shed. He paused just beyond the door, forcing himself to inhale, practicing his exhales to ensure they weren’t shaky. He told himself he was being weak-minded, and he had nothing to worry about. The witch was restrained. But, if he sensed Dean’s fear, he’d use it against him. Dean couldn’t allow his trepidation to show. He told himself he had all the power in this situation.

It didn’t feel that way at all, but he could pretend, at least for the amount of time it took to feed the witch.

Making himself tall, Dean stepped into the shed. The weak light from the candle’s wick barely reached the walls, but it was enough for Dean to see the witch wince. The witch lifted his chin, lips pressed into a thin line as his eyes fell on Dean’s.

He was still slouched against the wall, one hand resting loosely on his lap, his other hanging limply by the shackle. His legs were kicked out in front of him.

Dean’s breath tripped past his lips.

He watched the way the candlelight played on the witch’s face, bathing his tanned skin in yellow. Dean couldn’t see the blue of his eyes, but he could imagine it. The color instantly flashed into the forefront of his mind. He had stepped forward before he’d realized he’d done it. The straw crunched underfoot. He hadn’t even thought of it; he’d just moved toward the witch as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

He stopped himself and cleared his throat. He forced his eyes away. “Figured you might be hungry,” he said weakly. He paced toward the witch, heart sinking when he saw the man press his back further against the wall, as if trying to escape Dean’s presence.

Dean didn’t know why it wounded him. It shouldn’t have.

Dean kept his eyes away, cheek turned, as he leaned over to offer the bread. The man didn’t so much as move an inch to accept it. He just kept glowering. Dean felt his cheeks heating up. The temperature was suddenly hot and stifling, air pressing in on him, charged and electric like it was just before a thunderstorm. It was exhilarating—and terrifying.

He forced himself to sigh, twisting his fear into frustration. “Do you want it or not?”

Silence.

Dean pursed his lips. “Fine, if you want to starve.”

He didn’t actually mean it, but the man still didn’t move. Dean rolled his eyes and set the bread down on the hay next to the witch. He needed to get out of there. His heartbeat was audible. He wondered if the witch could hear it, too.

He wished he would _say something_.

“Thanks for the chat,” Dean mocked. He straightened out and turned his back to the man.

“What would you like me to say?”

Dean froze. He thought of the lightning storm. That’s what the man’s voice had sounded like—thunder. It rolled through the earth, resonating at the soles of Dean’s shoes and felt bodily. It came from the sky. It came from the depths of the world.

He looked around, stunned.

The witch spoke again. It was toneless, flat. He kept staring forward as he spoke, eyes not adjusting into focus. “That I aligned myself with the Devil? I signed my name in his book and now my soul belongs to him?”

Dean blinked. He realized he’d been watching the witch’s lips move to form the words.

He tried to right himself. The witch couldn’t know he’d affected him.

Dean quirked a lopsided smile, pushing all his bravado into it. “It’d make my job easier if you did.”

The witch’s eyes slid to Dean, looking at him without turning his head.

There was suddenly something cold clogging Dean’s throat, like he’d breathed in water. He felt weightless, and at the same time he could feel something around his ankles, pulling him down.

He had no power at all, he realized. He was caught in whatever sway this witch had over him.

His first instinct was to deny it. He’d been denying it all day.

“Would you believe me if I said I wasn’t a witch?” the man said.

Dean shook his head. In fact, he was more certain than ever. “Not really.”

The man’s eyes flickered away. “Then, what’s the point of speaking?”

Dean didn’t understand it. “Is that how you’re going to act at your trial? Because, believe me, they’ll convict you before you even walk in the door.”

“They already have,” the witch said, and there was power behind his tone now—feeling. It nearly knocked Dean off his feet with the shock of it. “How will they try me? Torture, if I’m fortunate. Drowning, hanging, fire? I’m dead no matter what I say or what they believe.”

Dean ground his teeth, but at least now he was in familiar territory. He’d heard all this time and time again from the prisoners he’d transported. “But let me guess—you’re innocent?”

The witch stayed silent. Dean stared at him hard. He couldn’t believe he’d thought this man held any power over him. He was chained up, in the dark, a pathetic thing bound for damnation.

“Do you know who I am?” Dean asked him, though he was certain he already knew the answer.

It took a long time for the witch to sigh and respond, “You’re a Winchester. You’re a witch hunter.”

Dean nodded at once. “That’s right. The best damn witch hunter in the colonies—maybe Europe, too. So, you tell me—why would your own _brother_ go through the trouble of sending for me and Sam to bring you in?”

No answer. The man wasn’t even looking at him. He just stared into the shadows.

It made Dean’s irritation spike. He wanted this man to know that Dean was the one in charge. “I mean—a wealthy family like yours? Why would he risk sullying his good name by sending hunters after his brother?”

“And what did Michael say my crime was?” the witch asked, though Dean was certain he already knew.

Dean tensed. He didn’t want to say it. He fisted his hand at his side. “He said the Devil was in you. He said he . . . he _saw_ you . . . with another man.”

The witch shook his head. “He doesn’t know what happened,” he whispered.

Dean let out a detersive laugh. “Yeah, well, too bad you don’t have any more witnesses—seeing as the other man walked into the river a few days later. I’m guessing that was your doing, too.”

Those eyes flashed to Dean again, fearsome things. The air nearly crackled. Dean matched his stare, not daring to blink first.

Silence hung, stretching on for what felt like minutes.

The witch said slowly, “Then maybe you should show me some respect, before I hex you, too.”

Dean’s lip twitched in a snarl. He reminded himself that the man was powerless and bound.

The witch leaned forward, regarding Dean up and down. Dean’s skin crawled.

“Or maybe I won’t need to,” the man said, tipping his head to the side. “If my soul in condemned, what about yours? How many people have you led to slaughter? How many of them were innocent?”

Dean felt his resolve weakening. It was getting difficult to breathe. He could still smell putrid decay.

The witch tilted his head even further. “Tell me, Goodman Winchester,” he whispered, narrowing his eyes into slits, “what do you think hellfire will feel like?”

Dean couldn’t tell if it was a threat or if the witch was trying to get under his skin. He wouldn’t allow for either, even though it was working.

His father’s voice echoed in his skull: _like mother, like son_.

He stepped close, standing over the man, and crouched before him. He lifted the slice of bread off the hay, brandishing it between them. “I guess you’ll find out tomorrow,” he said, and took a bite out of the bread.

It didn’t taste like anything anymore. Or maybe it tasted like ash.

He tossed the rest of it to the witch’s lap and stood up. He walked out of the shed, still able to feel the man’s gaze burning into the line of his shoulders.

Dean didn’t let it outwardly affect him—not until he was back inside the house, the door closed firmly behind him.

He breathed out, and then in again. The air carried with it the foul odor of disease.

///

The hay-stuffed mattress shifted and rustled beneath him. Dean hummed, the motion having driven him to the cusp of wakefulness. It was a cold night. He turned his nose further into the pillow for warmth. He could feel a presence at his back. There was body heat in the space between it and Dean’s spine—touch without touch. It was calming, welcomed. He longed for the space to be closed, to share the warmth.

He became aware of something brushing against his cheek. It was a feather-light thing, more of a suggestion of a caress than the thing itself. The knuckles moved up and down the side of Dean’s face, curving around his jaw and the apple of cheek.

Someone was speaking. “Shh. I’m here,” the voice said. It was deep and low, earthy. Dean felt it echo throughout his body before settling in his chest. “Rest.”

It was a dream. Dean knew he was dreaming, but it felt nice. It felt almost real. Maybe it could be, if he pretended hard enough.

The touch moved down his neck, sliding to his chest. The open palm left heat in its wake, chasing away the cold on Dean’s flesh. It moved up again to his throat, applying a gentle pressure with its thumb. And there was more heat—internal now. It prickled inside of Dean, churning and rolling from his toes up into his thighs.

He imagined a chest pressing into his back.

The hand moved down his body again, causing the muscles of his stomach to jump. His dick twitched in anticipation.

“I’m here,” the voice said again.

Dean gasped through his lips. His throat was cracked dry. His skin was flushing, from his cheeks to the tips of his ears, from the scruff of his neck down to his chest.

Slender fingers slipped under the waistband of his trousers. Dean sucked in air. He buried his face into the pillow. His fists tightened as the palm wrapped around him and began working him.

He tried to swallow. His throat felt thick. It was too hot now. His skin was like dried leaves furling among flames. His thoughts were becoming undone. All he could concentrate on was the rapturous feeling of the hands on him. He tried to focus. All he saw behind his eyes was the color blue. He thought he could drown in it.

The heat climbed higher, coiling his muscles. He felt delirious.

“Will you come for me?” the voice asked him, slow and steady and imploring.

Dean barely understood it. But he heard himself gasp out, “Yes.”

He could feel himself about to spill out—and then something changed. He could no longer feel the fist around him. The heat was still there, but it was wasn’t a wave washing over him. It was a thousand tiny creatures crawling on top of him—inside of him. They were under his skin, worming and wriggling and burrowing like ants and worms. Multiple-legged things, slithering things. Spiders and maggots.

He shouted, pulling himself fully into consciousness, his eyes still skewed shut.

The feeling was cut off immediately, as quickly as it took to blow out a candle. But there was something else in its place. Dean didn’t know what it was at first. It was wrapped around his chest, constricting him. Something solid was against his back.

Someone was there. Someone was constraining him with their arms.

He kept his eyes closed tightly. He tried to keep his breathing regulated, but his muscles were tight, his heart was hammering. He was ice cold.

All he had was the element of surprise on his side. That, and the knife hidden under his pillow.

As slowly as he could, he inched his hand beneath the pillow, his fingertips eventually connecting with the handle of the blade. He worked cautiously, doing all he could to stifle his fear.

He wrapped his fingers around the weapon, and prepared himself.

Dean whipped around, thrashing out—only for his fists to catch air. The tip of his blade ripped right through the mattress. He gasped in, a dizzying moment overtaking him, his brain screaming, _something’s wrong!_ Every nerve ending in his body was ablaze, the blood rushing back to his head. He looked around, wildly searching for whoever was in the bed. He thought he saw a shadow in the doorway—a quick movement of something rushing around the frame. It was difficult to tell in the darkness, but he thought it was the edge of a cloak.

Dean scrambled out of bed, gripping the knife tighter. He ran from the room, ready to strike the person on the other side.

There was no one. The room was empty, nothing but the flickering, dying flames in the hearth crackling. He couldn’t have been asleep for very long.

Dean kept his body coiled and his blade upright. He hadn’t heard the front door close. He hadn’t heard footsteps. He wondered if he’d been dreaming—some trick his mind played on him in the darkness. But it didn’t feel that way. Coldness sat like a rock in his stomach. It stole over his skin and inched down to the small of his back.

He turned his head, looking out the windows at the back of the house. In the distance, the woods were silent. He looked out the front window, where the rye was bending in the breeze. The moon hung over the pond, and suddenly Dean felt like ice.

There, in the pale light, a figure stood in the water. It was waist-deep. Dean could make out the shape of its head, and broad shoulders hidden beneath something—a garment. It was draped over the figure, curving the silhouette's form. A cloak. The man was in a cloak.

The witch had escaped.

Dean ran back into the bedroom, immediately grabbing his pistol off the stand. He fished for the leather pouch that carried his paper cartridges, fingers fumbling in his haste. He tore the cartridge open with his teeth, and ignored the taste of wax and gunpowder on his tongue. His hands shook, no matter how he tried to steady them, as he poured the powder into the pistol’s flash pan and shoved the bullet down its muzzle.

The entire time he works, his mind buzzed. He didn’t know how the witch had gotten loose. No prisoner had ever escaped his shackles before.

An errant thought came over him: _This one’s different_.

He shook it away, refusing to acknowledge it.

Pistol loaded, he tore for the house, ripping the door open and not bothering to close it. He ran at full speed, the dirt cold under his bare feet, pebbles jagged, hay sharp. His gun arm was already raised, though he still had to go through the wheat to get to the lake.

But he didn’t get the chance.

He skidded to a halt—and blinked at the empty moon rays cutting through the hovering mist and hitting the water.

The witch was gone.

Dean looked around, keeping perfectly still as he listened out. There was no rustling, no movement. The witch could have been anywhere—in the woods, hiding in the rye, or even beneath the water.

Or he could have been in none of those places.

Dean knew he had to check. He made to go forward, to take the first step into the path between the rye. His couldn’t. His mind spun, heart in his throat, desperately trying to come up with any reason to turn back. He thought he should check the shed first, before he let his imagination run wild.

Because maybe he hadn’t seen anyone at all.

He uncocked his gun, letting his arm fall to the side. He made for the shed, the chickens nesting around the coop rousing as he neared.

The moonlight followed him, its place in the sky now allowing for its rays to spill into the entrance of the shed. Dean realized it must have been at least midnight by now. Halloween.

The witch was still inside the shed, just where Dean had left him. It hadn’t even looked like he’d moved an inch. The slice of bread was still next to him on the hay.

He lifted his eyes to scowl at Dean.

Dean didn’t know whether or not to be relieved or wary. He came closer, eyeing the witch’s clothes. They were dry. His cloak was wrapped around him against the night’s chill. Dean breathed out, his breath puffing before him.

He told himself not to trust his eyes.

“How did you escape?” he demanded.

The witch furrowed his brow. “What—”

Dean raised his gun, thumb precarious on the frizzon. “I saw you!” he yelled, voice big in the small space. “You were in the water! You were in my—” He clamped his jaw shut. He remembered the hands on him, the heat they brought with them, the rush of pleasure. He could feel the same fire in his cheeks now.

The witched watched him, expression perplexed. Even in the darkness, the whites of his eyes were visible and glistening.

“Your what?”

Dean wondered if it really had been a dream, after all.

No. No, he couldn’t doubt himself. That’s what the witch wanted.

Quickly, Dean shoved his pistol into the back of his waistband and dropped to his knees. “Show me your arms,” he commanded, not waiting for an answer. He gripped the witch’s unshackled wrist and jerked it toward him.

“My—What are you doing?” the witch growled, confusion turning to fury. He tried to rip himself away. Dean’s grip tightened. He pushed up the sleeve of the witch’s shirt, and circled his other hand on his elbow to steady him. He tried to ignore the way the witch gasped sharply, and the way Dean’s own breath was stolen from him at the touch of bare skin.

Dean focused on the skin itself.

The witch settled, though his shoulders were still a rigid line and his tone was clipped when he said, “What are you doing?”

“Looking for the mark of the Beast on you,” Dean answered quickly, intent on his work. It was difficult to see in the lowlight, but the arm looked clean. There wasn’t so much as a scar—not a welt or a wart, not wound. Nothing. He flipped the arm over, and the witch grunted as his body twisted.

“The _what_?”

“Shut up.”

It was too dark to see properly. He steadied himself, told himself he was a professional. He’d done this countless times before to other prisoners. He ran the pads of his fingers down the witch’s arms, touch light but searching. He could feel the witch watching him. Dean didn’t dare meet his eyes, no matter how much everything inside of him desired it.

The skin was smooth—warm to the touch. Dean found himself biting down on his lip. He inspected the witch’s hands. They were slender and lightly calloused. His fingers were long and thin, and Dean could still feel them on his body.

He swallowed the memory down, purposefully replacing it with anger. He shoved the arm away before moving to the other that was bound by iron. He made quick work of it, and found it unblemished.

“Did you find anything?” the witch said, sounding as if he was mocking Dean.

Dean shot him a hard look. “That doesn’t mean you don’t have one _somewhere_.”

It seemed like the witch hadn’t expected that. His eyes went wide, brows popped, voice scandalized as he asked, “You’re not going to _check_?”

Dean’s jaw was aching with how hard he was biting down on it. “Not tonight.”

The witch breathed out, seeming relieved, and for some reason it caused a curl of rejection in Dean’s chest. He buried it, and returned his attention to the witch’s cuffed wrist.

The skin there appeared tender, bruised and raw. There was blood where the metal met skin. It looked like the witch had been trying to free himself, after all, but hadn’t succeeded.

“Does it hurt?” he found himself asking. He didn’t know why he’d done it. He hadn’t meant to. What did it matter if this witch were uncomfortable? But there was a pang in Dean’s heart. He remembered how his father had scolded him once, when he was a child, for crying when a rabbit in their snare was suffering needlessly, its life slow to leave it.

The witch didn’t answer, and Dean took his silence to mean yes. Dean didn’t know when that had happened—when he’d learned to read what this man did not say.

He turned his head, catching the man’s eyes. He was staring back already, gaze volleying along Dean’s face. Dean took him in, too, trying not to think about how handsome he was. He tried to recall his scripture. It told him that the Devil wore a beautiful face and spoke with a lying tongue.

But Dean decidedly wasn’t tempted. He would not allow himself to be tempted.

His lips were wet. Belatedly, he realized his tongue had darted out to moisten them.

He tore his eyes away and climbed to his feet. Keeping his head ducked, he said, “I’ll be right back.” He left the barn, aware of the witch’s quizzical gaze following him out.

Dean returned to house and found the cloth-wrapped bread on the table. He took off the cloth, folding it into a strip. He brought it with him when he went back to the shed.

The witch was still staring ahead, eyes expectant and wary. Dean didn’t look at him. He came forward again, knuckles white around the cloth. He wrapped it around the man’s wrist and shoved it up into the metal. The witch hissed at the touch of it, but it seemed to be a temporary discomfort.

As Dean secured the cloth, he felt the witch watching him. Something felt different about the way he was staring—as if his eyes had finally come into focus. Dean wanted to look at them. He wanted to find them present in the moment. He wanted them to see him for the first time.

He told himself not to.

“There,” Dean said when he was finished. He dropped his hands to his lap.

The witch didn’t say anything, and maybe Dean wasn’t as good as reading his silence as he thought. He had no idea what the man was thinking—just that his lips were parted as he continued to regard Dean.

Dean cleared his throat and stood up again. He felt strange—awkward—but he didn’t regret what he’d done. He _did_ want to remove himself from this situation though, and to forget it ever happened. He turned around.

And then, “Dean.”

Dean stalled at once. He let the word wash over him—a quick thing, simply one syllable. He knew it was his name, but it was said in a way he’d never heard before. He couldn’t explain it, but he wasn’t certain it belonged to him anymore. He’d given it away, and he’d given it willingly.

“Thank you,” the witch said.

Dean let his eyes slipped closed. He railed against the fluttering wings in his chest. He forced his expression to become stony, and he didn’t turn around until he was certain it wouldn’t crack. “Yeah, well,” he said gruffly. “I figure some extra padding couldn’t hurt, right? It’ll make it harder for you to slip out.”

The witch lifted his chin, looking as if he could see straight through Dean. Knowingly, he agreed, “Of course.”

Dean cracked. “Yeah,” he said, quickly looking away. He had to leave.

“Castiel,” the witch said, stopping him again.

Dean had no idea what he’d meant by it. And still, the word felt like a punch to the gut. It knocked the wind out of him. “What?” he asked, peering over his shoulder. The moonlight lit up the tips of the man’s hair.

“Castiel,” he repeated. “My name is Castiel. I assume Michael hadn’t told you.”

Dean held the name on his tongue. It tasted like wine and sweet bread. He wanted to keep it there, to savor it.

 _Castiel_. It didn’t sound like the name of evil. In fact, it sounded holy. Dean was certain that, if he ever spoke it, it would feel stronger than prayer.

What power did this witch have over him?

“Nice to meet you, Cas,” he said bitingly, not daring to use such a blessed name in full. “Don’t try to escape again.”

As fast as he could, he turned his back to Cas and stomped out of the shed.


	2. Chapter 2

“ _Dean_.”

The voice was carried on the wind—or maybe it was the wind itself. It swept through the distant trees, broke on the rocks and boulders, scattered the loose earth. Dean could feel it ghosting over his cheeks like cold fingers.

“Dean.”

Dean couldn’t move his limbs. They were weights against the mattress, and they didn’t listen to the weak commands his mind supplied them with. His body stayed sleeping. His mind was almost awake. He could feel the bed under him. He was aware of room around him. But all of it was just on the other side of a dream.

Wood creaked, accompanied by the hollow sound of footsteps walking into the bedroom. They stopped at the side of the bed. And then there was another. They sounded lighter than the first. Slow, deliberate footfalls. They went around to the other side of the bed before resting there.

And then another set.

And then another after that.

He could feel the figures looming over him, but he couldn’t open his eyes to see their faces. He dreamed of dark shadows, each of them bleeding into the night. They circled him, stared down at him.

He couldn’t move his limbs.

His heartbeat was audible. It had picked up gradually at first, and then all at once. It jumped inside his ribs, beating against its cage. It sounded like running, arrhythmic footsteps.

He could hear more voices. They sounded close—right next to his ear. But they were muffled, too—just quick bursts of sound and garbled speech. He couldn’t make out any of the words.

Until, “Dean.”

It rang as clear as bell’s toll. And, like that, the figures surrounding him where gone. He could no longer feel their imposing presence. His fingers twitched. His toes wiggled. His legs jerked and kicked, waking his body. But they still paid his mind no heed.

He dreamed of sitting up and pushing the covers away. The floorboards moaned beneath shuffling feet. He felt himself swaying with every step.

“Dean.”

He walked toward the voice, following it wherever it beckoned. Behind his eyes, all he could see was blue.

The voice was still calling to him. It led him on, from the house and into the prickling grass on the soles of his feet, which soon gave way to tilled dirt. He moved through the rye, the bending stalks brushing against his chest and arms like grappling fingers.

“Dean.”

Soon, mud was between his toes. It was frigid, clinging to his feet. Each time he stepped on the soft earth, he sunk into it. It took him in deeper every time, clawing to not let him go.

He stopped at the edge of the pond. The water lapped against his toes. It felt like ice. The wind wrapped around him, brushing through his hair and catching on his clothes. It whistled past his ears. In the distance, he could hear wolves howling from within the trees. There was only darkness behind Dean’s eyes, interrupted only by the glow of the moon. It mixed with the shadows, tinting them blue.

“Come forward, Dean,” the voice said. "Come to me."

Dean shivered in the cold. His skin ached as it bumped. The only warm he felt radiated from the back of his neck.

“Castiel,” he breathed out. He could picture Cas, waist-deep in the inky black water. The moon was silver on his skin. His arm was outstretched toward Dean.

“Come, Dean,” the voice said.

Dean’s legs moved on their own again. They pulled from the squelching mud. The water seeped past his skin, through muscle and sinew. His very bones felt brittle from it. It was at his ankles, then his shins, his knees, his waist, his chest, his neck.

The murk swirling beneath his toes dropped off. His legs kicked, searching for a foothold that never came. Cas was gone.

Dean’s flesh fight too tight around him. His body shook. He couldn’t move his limbs. Something was touching the back of his neck, some red-hot iron. It was the last thing he felt before he went under the surface.

Water rushed over his ears. He could hear the garbling of bubbles rising to the surface. He hung suspended, arms floating above him, legs still beneath him, body sinking. His lips parted, letting in the brackish, black water into his mouth. His heartbeat was slowing, calming down. He could hear the steady pulse of it, echoing around him like he was in a chamber.

He felt mud on the bottom of his feet again. It was soft, gentle.

His only discomfort was the tightness in his chest. It was growing with every second.

He ignored it. He let himself fall back into the emptiness of sleep.

His heart slowed more and more . . .

And, suddenly, his lungs were burning. He told himself to fist his hands. His fingers tightened.

Dean’s eyes flew open.

He wasn’t in bed. He wasn’t asleep.

It was hard to see under the water. It took his eyes a second to focus on the image in front of him. It was a woman. She was pale, eyes closed, her hair swaying around her. She was naked.

Dean’s gaze flashed behind her. A man was in a similar state. There was a girl, just on the cusp of being a woman. A young boy was also among them.

The four bodies were unmoving but for the water’s will.

Dean remembered the four piles of sopping clothing back in the house. He looked at the woman, and the coldness was now inside of him.

There was nothing he could do for these people. He needed to swim to the surface. He needed to breathe.

Dean cast the woman one last sorry look.

Her eyes opened.

Dean gasped in, water breaking into his lungs and filling his nose. He pushed himself backward through the water. The woman lifted her arm, white hand reaching out. Behind her, the others turned to Dean, their eyes open, pupils nothing but pinpricks around pale white, their arms lifted.

Dean kicked off the bottom. His heart was thundering. He pushed at the water, kicking frantically toward the glimmering silver disk of the moon on the surface.

Something wrapped around his ankle—icy hands. They pulled him back down. Dean’s arms were burning as he tried to swim against the woman’s grip. It was no use.

He looked down just in time to see the white face of the man emerge from the darkness below. He grabbed Dean’s pantleg, yanking him back toward the bottom of the pond. Dean kicked hard, trying to release himself.

Two more sets of hands grabbed him. Spindly fingers clamored and clawed. Nails sank into his flesh, scratching and biting. Dean could feel darkness creeping into the edge of his vision. He raged against it, doing all he could to kick out his legs. Desperately, his arms flailed in attempt to pull him upward.

He managed to free one of his legs. He aimed a kick at the man’s face, stomping down hard. The man sunk away. He kicked at the woman—he even kicked at the children. He pushed their ghastly images back into the black, and he wouldn’t give them a moment to return.

He swam for the surface, coming up fast when he broke out of the water. He gasped, the crisp autumn air stinging and slashing its way into his chest. The wispy mist on the surface sat thick in his lungs with every inhale. He didn’t give himself a second’s respite. He could still feel the hands on him. He could still see those faces, those eyes.

His breath burst out of him in grunts and gasps as he fought to the bank. His heart leapt at the feeling of mud under his toes before he realized the water was now shallow enough to run through.

He climbed out of the water, rolling onto the grass and collapsing into a fit of coughs and sputters. The water tasted like iron as he spit it up. His body trembled and tensed from the cold—and maybe more than that. He could still feel fear’s frigid grip around his heart.

He turned his eyes back to the water. It was unmoving, a deep pit of blackness. He couldn’t see beneath the surface, and nothing rose out from it. The moon twinkled against it like a mirror.

Dean heaved, trying his best to calm himself. He ran his hand through his hair, making it stick up at every angle.

He’d been asleep. He’d been sleepwalking.

But that was no dream. He remembered the voice calling to him. _Cas’_ voice. It led him into the water, to be drowned like the family. Like the man Cas had seduced in his village. And the corpses . . . Dean had never seen such dark and heinous magic.

He couldn’t allow it to happen again. He wouldn’t sleep until the witch was hung in Salem. And he wouldn’t take his eyes off Cas either. It was too dangerous.

Gathering his strength, he climbed to his feet. His knees shook under him, and he kept his palm on the grass until he had to stand up fully. He tensed his jaw, willing all his bravado forward. It faltered, just for a moment, when he glanced back at the silent waters.

He stomped through the pathway between the rye. The water made his shirt and breeches cling to his skin, the slick slide of the fabric dragging him down. Droplets shimmered in the moonlight as they dripped off his hair and pocked the dirt, which stuck to the soles of his feet until they were blackened. He did his best not to shiver, even though the cold breeze was exacerbated by the water, and it felt as if it were leaching into his bones. His teeth were chattering.

The chickens squawked, but he paid them no mind and continued to march purposefully into the shed. Cas’ head was bent low, his chin touching his chest, and Dean faltered momentarily, thinking he was sleeping. But then Cas looked up, and he squinted in the darkness at Dean.

He said, “You’re wet.”

Dean stopped short in front him, his shoulders rigid and fists clench, trying to seem imposing instead of freezing. He glared down at Cas, but Cas only met the challenge with those curious, alien eyes. The water falling off Dean’s clothes splattered audibly on the hay.

“You think?” he gritted out in response. Cas’ perplexed frown deepened. Dean wasn’t in the mood. He should kill the witch himself right now. “Don’t give me that—like you didn’t do this!” He gestured toward the expression on Cas’ face, his sodden sleeve slapping against his side when he brought his arm back down.

Cas let out a weary sigh. “How could I have done that in my current predicament?” he asked dryly, eyes flashing to his chained wrist.

Dean barked out a sardonic laugh, not willing to fall for it. “Why don’t you confess now and we’ll get your hanging over with?”

Cas’ eyes hardened and narrowed into slits. He kept his mouth closed tightly.

“Yeah, I thought so.” Dean stepped forward, taking the key off his belt. He unclasped the shackle around the wooden beam.

“What are you doing?” Cas demanded, and maybe, a few hours ago, Dean would have thought his voice had been stoic. But he could sense the dregs of fear beneath it. “Dean?”

“Be quiet,” Dean told him, jerking both Cas’ arms forward. Cas resisted, and Dean had to grab his free wrist to put the shackle on.

“I haven’t done _anything_.”

Dean had enough. “You’re lying!” he shouted. Cas reacted as though he’d been struck bodily. Dean clamped down on his jaw again, a pang of guilt spiking through him. He tried to tell himself he had no reason for remorse. Cas had tried to kill him.

He got to his feet, and bent over again to wrestle Cas up. “Come with me,” he ordered. He didn’t wait for a response before grabbing Cas’ elbow and dragging him out of the shed. He pulled him toward the house, eyes fixed on the last orange glow of the embers in the hearth coming through the windows. He desperately didn’t think about the way Cas’ muscles shifted under his grip.

They were halfway to the house when a sharp pain sprang through Dean’s shin. He was knocked down to his knees, cursing, and threw out his hands in front of him so he wouldn’t go down all the way. He had half a second to absorb the shock in his bruised knees before realizing Cas had kicked the back of his leg. And now Cas was running.

Dean jumped up, sprinting as fast as he could after Cas. He was headed for the forest, the chain around his wrists rattling frantically as he moved. Dean knew it would be impossible to find him among the trees if Cas reached them. He’d get away for good.

Dean pushed himself harder, the bottoms of his feet sore as he trod over rocks and prickly, decaying leaves.

Cas was a few yards from the tree line.

Dean sprang on him, grabbing Cas around the waist. The momentum pulled them both the grass, and Cas somehow recovered before Dean did. He struggled to get free from under Dean. Dean fought back, grabbing hold of any limb or piece of clothing he could. He twisted his fist into Cas’ cloak.

In the tousle, Dean ended up rolled onto his back, Cas still beneath him, between Cas’ legs. Cas put the chain between his shackles around Dean’s neck and pulled, gagging him. The chains dug into his throat, the cold metal stinging as it constricted his airways. Dean couldn’t breathe. He forced himself not to panic, and he remembered his training. He elbowed Cas sharply in the ribs. Cas gasped out in pain, his grip loosening. It allowed Dean a moment to free himself.

He rolled over, fighting to grab Cas’ wrists. Cas swat at him. Dean had to straddle his hips to hold him down. He managed to get Cas’ wrists and, holding them tight enough to bruise, he forced them down on the grass over Cas’ head. Cas weakly tried one more attempt of fighting back by bucking beneath Dean before going still. His chest rose and fell in labored breaths that skirted over Dean’s face.

His face was close, their noses nearly brushing as Dean leaned over him to keep his arms down. And, stupidly, Dean’s eyes flashed down between them, at the sturdy body stretched out beneath him. Dean’s own breath stuttered before he could get ahold of himself.

He told himself—whatever this was, whatever prickling he was feeling in his gut, whatever heat in his cheeks, whatever static pull he felt on his lips as they hovered close to Cas’—it wasn’t real. It was witchcraft.

“I told you not to try to escape again,” he said, his voice coming out rougher than he’d intended, damn him.

Cas didn’t respond. He glared again. The heat in Dean’s cheeks started traveling lower.

He steadied himself, and forced himself away. Still holding Cas’ arms down, he climbed to his feet and pulled Cas up. “Walk.” This time, he made Cas walk in front of him so that Dean could keep an eye on him.

Once in the house, Dean sat Cas down on one of the chairs at the table. He pulled Cas’ arms around to the back, ignoring the uncomfortable grunt Cas gave at being manhandled. He re-fastened the shackles behind the chair, confident that it would hold the witch.

When he walked back around, Cas’ eyes followed him, expression dark and angry, like he was vowing revenge.

Dean sat in the chair across from him, and told himself the witch would be dead before any vengeance came.

///

Dean’s clothes were dry. He’d rebuilt the fire in the hearth, its flames currently popping and hissing, and he’d shed his outer layers to lay them on the floor beneath it. And he’d pointedly ignored the way Cas had watched him, somehow with both aloofness and interest, when he took off the clothes. Afterward, however, there wasn’t much to preoccupy his mind, no way to distract himself.

Cas kept staring. It must have been some kind of intimidation tactic. Dean wasn’t even sure the witch had blinked, but he’d been avoiding eye contact. He watched a piece of bread rip apart between his fingers. It tasted like nothing in his mouth, and it was almost a relief when he swallowed it. He wasn’t even hungry. He just wanted something to do.

He made the mistake of glancing up. Cas was still staring, blue eyes piercing. Unabashed. He didn’t look away. Dean didn’t know how to make him stop. He tried to challenge the gaze, but all it did was make the skin on the back of his neck flush.

He ripped off another piece of bread and tossed it angrily into his mouth.

Cas’ eyes dropped to Dean’s lips. Dean stopped chewing, frozen suddenly. The heat on his neck was moving up to his ears. He hadn’t meant to swallow. When he did, the food in his mouth went down thick. He realized he was staring at Cas’ mouth, too, but only when Cas’ tongue, pink and wet, darted out to moisten his lips.

He saw Cas’ eyes lower to his hands. To the bread.

Dean breathed in. He told himself he was relieved.

“Are you hungry?” he asked. Cas had refused the bread earlier. Maybe he was finally coming to his senses.

Or maybe not.

“No.” The word was blunt, hard. Cas’ eyes snapped back up to Dean’s.

Dean huffed. “Well, then stop it.”

“Stop what?”

“ _Looking_ at me.”

Cas’ chest deflated in a gusting sigh. If his arms hadn’t been bound behind him, his shoulders might have drooped, too. “You’re the one who decided to sit right in front of me. Where would you like me to look?”

“Anywhere!” Dean told him, frustration mounting. “You’re making my skin crawl.”

“Apologies if you’re uncomfortable,” Cas deadpanned, lifting his shoulders to the best of his ability in his restraints.

Dean tried not to feel too guilty, especially when he remembered that Cas had tried to drown him. He was just tired. He rubbed at his eyes until a kaleidoscope of swirling darkness overcame his vision. “Just don’t hex me again.”

Cas shook his head, lips pinched.

Dean dropped his arms to the table. “What?”

“It doesn’t matter. You won’t listen,” was the answer, “but I never . . . _hexed_ you. I haven’t done anything.”

Dean wondered when Cas would finally stop lying. “Tell that to the man you drowned.”

“I didn’t—” Cas said, chains rattling as he attempted to jerk forward. He gritted his teeth, apparently trying to calm himself. He said, “I didn’t know Balthazar was going to do that to himself. It was never my intention.”

Dean’s brows popped skeptically. “When you killed him?”

Dean got his wish, because Cas looked away. He hung his head, almost seeming sorry. It was confusing. And now, Dean couldn’t stop staring. Out of all the witches Dean had hunted in his life, Cas didn’t act like any of them.

“That’s not what happened,” Cas whispered, so low that Dean almost didn’t hear him. Not that Dean believed him.

“Oh, yeah? Why don’t you enlighten me, then?”

Cas lifted his head, big eyes downturned and sorrowful. “I didn’t . . . kiss him. He tried to kiss me.”

It was more lies. It had to be. “Your brother said—”

“Michael wasn’t even there,” Cas interrupted. “It was one of the boys from the village who saw us. It wasn’t long before everyone knew. Balthazar, he—he had a reputation. He didn’t belong to the church and he wasn’t quiet about it. The governor had tried to exile him before. If they thought him . . . perverse . . . they’d send him away. And, trust me, he was not someone who could fend for himself in the wilderness. So, I told Michael it was me.” His eyes flickered back down to his lap, like he’d regretted the decision. “I shouldn’t have done that, obviously.”

The furrow of Dean’s brows had deepened with every word. Cas seemed sincere enough, and Dean’s gut was telling him it was the truth. But a voice in the back of his head that sounded like his father told him not to listen.

“You know,” he said, “I think the Devil speaks with that tongue.”

Cas let out a breath as if he were giving up. “I’m not lying,” he said wearily.

“What, so you’re some kind of hero?”

“No,” Cas said, even more firmly than before. “But . . . Balthazar was my friend.”

Dean stared at him hard, searching for any sign that it was the truth, any sign that it was a lie. He kept wavering between the two, tipping side-to-side like a ship on stormy waters.

“Well, say I believe you—” Dean folded his arms on the table and leaned into them. Cas glanced back up hopefully. “What happens? I let you go? Take your word for it and wash my hands of anything you might do if I’m wrong? Or do I spend the rest of my life hoping some other man doesn’t try to stick his tongue down your throat?”

The last thing Dean expected to Cas to do was laugh. It was a low, quick thing—more of a breath than anything else—but it took him by surprise nonetheless. Dean blinked, his spine going rigid and mouth going slack. It was over now, but the image of Cas’ fleeting smile was burned into his retinas—like blinking after looking directly at a candle’s lit wick. Something akin to a match struck in his chest.

It took him a second to realize Cas had spoken. “I wouldn’t recommend fantasizing about such things.”

Another image flashed before Dean’s vision. Blue eyes, long fingers wrapped around him, a voice in his ear. He bit down on his jaw, forcing down the tingling interest the thought had brought on.

He reminded himself that the dream hadn’t been his own. The man in front of him had placed it there. He was Dean’s enemy.

He pushed his chair back to stand. It caught Cas’ attention. He looked up, eyes following Dean as he walked around the table to tower over him.

Dean leaned in. “Then why’d he kill himself?”

Cas shook his head, expression once again neutral. “I don’t know. Maybe . . . maybe he thought they’d exile him anyway.”

Dean hummed, telling himself not to buy it. “Right. And if he was such a stain on the village, why wouldn’t Michael see right through your story?”

Cas rolled his eyes, taking his head with it. It was the most animated Dean had seen him so far. He wondered how much of the stoicism was actually Cas’ nature, and what else lay beneath the surface.

“Michael has been looking for an excuse to get rid of me my entire life,” Cas said. His eyes were boring again, but he didn’t seem to be looking at Dean. They were more distant that usual. “You wouldn’t understand. You and your brother appear to be . . . close.”

Dean shrugged. He and Sam had their fair share of fights over the years, especially when their father was still alive. Sometimes, Dean considered it a miracle that Sam was still around. “Try me.”

Cas eyed him distrustfully through his lashes. Dean found himself softening his expression in response. Before he could correct himself, however, it was too late. Cas exhaled heavily through his nose. He said, “Michael blames me for our mother’s death.” He provided no detail beyond that.

Still, Dean’s throat went dry. His tongue felt too big in his mouth. His palms itched and heated up. He formed them into fists and tried to clear his throat. “Why?” a crack ran through the word.

“Because she died giving birth to me,” Cas said, too preoccupied with his lap to notice the look that must have been in Dean eyes. “Like I said—you wouldn’t understand.”

The flames in the hearth attracted Dean’s gaze. He could feel them on his cheeks—burning, stinging. Or maybe that was just a memory. The distant sounds of screams accompanied it. He stared until his eyes stung dryly.

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” he heard himself say. It was out before he’d realized what he’d done.

Cas had that quizzical look on his face again—squinted eyes, knitted brows. Dean didn’t even have to turn his head to know it was there. He could feel it on his skin.

“My mother died when I was young.” He faced forward again. Cas had softened, sorrow written on his features. Dean tried to rail against it, because he didn’t need the witch’s pity. But he was tired, and it had been years since anyone had spoken about his mother.

He tried to forget the last time. But he recalled the shattering sound of a bottle. Slurred words.

Dean closed his eyes, purposefully frowning. John always said Dean’s smile reminded him of Mary’s. He said _Dean_ reminded him of Mary. As Dean grew older, he did all he could to stop the reminder. He didn’t want to be that. He didn’t want to be a source of pain. He wanted to be like his father.

He _was_ like his father. He made sure of it.

But he was so damn exhausted, and right now it didn’t seem worth it to pretend.

“Not in . . . Not like yours. She was—” No. He couldn’t say it. He’d already gone far enough. Changing course, he said, “There was a fire.”

Burning heat. Screams.

Broken bottles. Slurred words. Yelling. His cheeks stinging. _“Like mother, like son.”_ The words still rang hollow in Dean’s ears, even now.

“Dean.” It was said with comfort, but with fierceness, too. Dean had never met anyone able to turn his name into something like that. “I’m sorry.”

Dean shook himself out of the memory. It was a long time ago. Both memories were.

“Yeah, well,” he said, trying to move past it. He opened his eyes. He should have known he’d find Cas’ searching him—big and blue and genuine, and Dean was helpless under them. “It’s fine. Actually, it was kind of the reason my father became a witch hunter. Why me and Sam are, too.”

Cas’ expression shuttered somewhat at that. He pinched his lips. “You think it was . . . witchcraft that killed your mother?”

It was a strange way to phrase it. Defensiveness ebbed back into Dean’s heart. He shouldn’t have told Cas any of this. “Yeah,” he said, shrugging out his hands his lap. “It _was_ witchcraft.”

Cas tilted his head up a little more to make eye contact. “You . . . _believe_ that?”

Dean gestured around vaguely. He wasn’t really sure what he was trying to indicate. Perhaps his entire life. “Obviously.”

Cas worked his jaw from side to side. Dean was learning that meant there was something on Cas’ mind that he wasn’t saying. Only, now it was accompanied by something that looked suspiciously like pity.

“What?” Dean grunted out, already prepared to shoot down whatever ridiculous notion was going through Cas’ head.

“Dean,” he said again, in that way of his. It was strange. Hours ago, Dean had only seen emptiness in his eyes—but now, Cas’ expression was open. He wondered if it had always been like that, and Dean just hadn’t known where to look before. “There’s no such thing.”

Dean scoffed immediately. He’d been right. It was ridiculous, especially coming from him. He had to have been joking.

Dean’s eyes flashed back to him. He wasn’t joking.

Humor immediately transformed into agitation. “Are you serious?”

Cas nodded.

Dean couldn’t believe he’d let himself fall for Cas’ act. For a second, he’d forgotten who he was speaking to.

If this was some kind of trap, he’d have to do a lot better than that. Just because Dean had told him about his mother, and Cas had shared his sob story—which was probably fabricated—didn’t meant they were friends. He certainly didn’t trust Cas.

He didn’t.

“Do you think I’m stupid?”

Cas sighed, probably because his plan had failed.

“I’m a witch _hunter_ ,” Dean spat acerbically, “and _that’s_ your plan to—what? Convince me to let you go? You tell me there’s no such thing as witches.”

“There was no plan,” Cas muttered.

“Clearly! Because, God, no one would come up with anything that dumb.” He let out a dry laugh, because he still couldn’t actually believe it. “I mean, do you know how many witches I’ve taken in? Guess. Go on.”

Cas glared up at him again, any previous emotion written on his features completely withdrawn. “No,” he said, his voice going gritty. Dean felt it in his chest. “But, out of that number, I can guess how many were tried. How many were burned or hanged or drowned. How many died to prove their innocence.” He cocked his head to the side. “Tell me, Dean, did any of the people you brought in survive their trial? Were _any_ of them proven to be witches?”

Dean gritted his teeth. A stone was forming in his gut. It was cold and jagged, biting into his fleshy insides, threatening to gouge them apart.

He didn’t need to answer the question. Cas knew that none of them survived. “They all confessed.”

“Under duress, I’m sure.”

Dean shook his head. He didn’t need to listen to this—this desperate plea. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yes, I do.” It was said with such confidence—such wrath. All Dean could do was blink and watch the fury fade from Cas’ irises. The firelight was casting shadows on his face, an orange hue tinting his skin. It flickered across his sharp features in brushstrokes. Dean was certainly no artist, but it was hard not to notice that the vision in front of him could have been a portrait.

He shut down that line of thinking as soon as he recognized it.

Cas said, “My father was a cleric in the church, Dean. I saw what they did to those accused of witchcraft. The . . .” He jutted out his jaw and shook his head in miniscule movements. “Torture. The killing. And that was before all this—before Salem. What it’s turned into . . . it’s madness. You can’t tell me you haven’t seen more so-called witch accusations recently than you have in years past.”

Dean jolted to his feet. Was Cas suggesting Dean was bringing innocent people in on purpose? He knew how to hunt witches. He was the best for a reason.

“Are you saying I’m some kind of murderer? And, what, my soul really is Hell-bound? _Huh_ , Cas?”

Cas let his eyes fall closed. “No. And I don’t believe you’re stupid, either. I think you’re . . . confused.”

“Confused?”

“There are no witches, Dean.”

He was just saying that. He was _trying_ to confuse Dean.

“Yes, there are.”

He was trying to confuse him—about everything. About witchcraft. About who Cas really was. About how Dean felt about him.

“No, there aren’t.”

The fire in the hearth was too hot now. Dean felt dizzy under the temperature. He could hear the flames hissing.

“You’re a witch.”

He remembered Cas’ hands on him, the voice in his ear. It had been more than a dream; he was sure of it.

Dean wasn’t the one bound for eternal damnation. Cas was. Dean wouldn’t let himself be dragged down with him.

“I’m not.”

“You _have_ to be!” He hadn’t meant to shout it. He heard his own voice bounce back against the walls, and it made his heart stutter.

Cas blinked rapidly at him, clearly not having expected the reaction. Dean felt even hotter than before, ashamed.

And Cas’ shock turned into confusion. He squinted up at Dean. “Why . . . do I _have_ to be?” he asked slowly.

A muscle in Dean’s jaw jumped. He told himself not to apologize. He bit down hard on his tongue.

“Dean?”

He couldn’t listen to this anymore. He couldn’t let Cas get inside his head. He couldn’t allow an inch.

He needed some air. It was too hot.

“Shut up,” he demanded. He marched around Cas’ chair and checked on his restraints, ensuring they were tight. Briefly, his eyes flickered to the cloth he’d shoved inside to protect Cas’ wrist, and he wondered if he should use it to gag him. He shook his head, deciding not to. He just needed to minute to correct himself.

“Dean, what aren’t you telling me?” Cas asked, like he had any right.

“I said be quiet,” Dean hissed. “I don’t have to tell you anything, got it? You’re just a damn witch.” He pulled on the shackles. They were tight enough. “Hell, you might even be worse. You might even be an incubus.”

“ _What_?”

Damn it. Dean shouldn’t have said that. His throat felt clogged with pressure. The hissing in his eardrums had turned into a screeching tinnitus.

Cas was straining his neck, trying to look around. Dean wouldn’t allow him to make eye contact. “Dean—”

“ _Shut up_!”

Too late, Dean realized he was looking into Cas’ eyes. He was holding his stare, a one-sided challenge. Cas was regarding him with a mixture of concern and horror. It was suddenly hard to breathe. Like an invisible rope was tied around Dean’s neck, taking the air from him.

“Fuck,” he hissed, tearing his eyes away. He rushed out of the house, ignoring Cas calling after him.

It was a little easier to pull in air once he was on the other side of the door—away from the smoke churning from the hearth, away from the flickering flames casting their searing heat, away from Cas’ eyes. Dean bent over, hands on his knees, and pulled in bouts of crisp air through his nose. The cold almost felt good in his lungs. He closed his eyes, letting himself relax.

The ringing in his ears was subsiding. He listened past it, willing it away. The wind was swooshing through the rye. In the distance, he heard it whispering against the trees, its invisible hands plucking off the leaves and casting them to the earth. Everything else was silent.

Why did that make Dean nervous?

He opened his eyes, trying to pinpoint the source of his unease. He scanned his surroundings, finding nothing out of sorts. And yet, dread was ratcheting up his throat. Something was wrong. He felt it in his bones, but some sixth sense. He Something was missing.

He realized the chickens weren’t clucking like they had been all night.

Dean turned his head toward their coop. The animals were mounds of shadow on the dirt, all of them still as they slept. Dean pulled his brows together as he continued to watch them. None of them roused. He shouldn’t have expected them to. It was nighttime, after all. But something felt off. His stomach sloshed. There was a tingling in the back on his head, telling him he wasn’t alone.

He paced forward, walking slowly as he approached the coop. When he got closer, his eyes adjusted to the silhouettes. The chickens were on their sides, wings splayed and feathers matted, necks bent at awkward angles. Dean’s mouth was hanging open, eyes wide as he searched the dirt for any signs of paw prints. He tried to tell himself a wolf had gotten them, but he hadn’t heard the chickens’ frantic yells, and none of them looked eaten—just mangled.

He bent down to inspect one further. Its beady black eye stared back at him. A fine, loose coating of dirt was on its feathers, as though someone had taken a handful of earth and scattered it on the corpse. It didn’t sit right in Dean’s gut. He pinched a feather, transferring some of the filth onto his fingertips. It was slick and grainy to the touch. When he brought it to his nose, it smelled of coal. Of ash.

It _was_ ash.

Dean barely had a moment to process that before something rustled behind him. His spine went ramrod straight. The sound had come from the rye. Dean sprang to his feet, grabbing his knife from his belt as he went. He whipped around.

There was nothing.

And then, a few stalks close to the edge of the field shivered. Dean’s eyes narrowed to the spot, his grip tightening on the handle of his knife. He wondered if he should have taken out his pistol instead, especially if it was a wolf.

He sincerely hoped it was a wolf.

There was that feeling touching his skin again, the prickling of awareness that he was being watched. It ran cold down his spine. He could almost feel breath on the back of his neck.

Toward the bottom of the rye, the crop parted. In the low light of the moon, it was hard to see at first. Something was emerging from between the stalks. It wasn’t until they began curling did Dean recognize them. Long, white fingers, ghastly hands. They reached out, parting the rye, naked arms following. The hands fell to the dirt, wrists arching upward at sharp, stiff angles, bones protruding. The knuckles were bent like talons. The fingernails were in the dirt, clawing and reaching as the hidden figure beyond dragged itself forward, grappling out of the wheat.

There was a presence at Dean’s back. The breath on his neck was hot. He heard it hiss from a set of lungs before it touched his skin. He jumped, spinning around. The space behind him was empty. He looked back to the rye. The hands were gone.

His nerves were on high alert, every muscle inside of him tensed. His gaze ricocheted across the farm, from the field to the shed, the distant wood, the pond.

The pond.

The same shadow as earlier was standing in the water again, waist-deep, a cloak draped down its back. Something told him to go back inside, to make sure Cas was where he’d left him, but he couldn’t. He wouldn’t let the figure get away again. Dean kept his eyes fixed on it as he tucked his knife back in his belt and took out his pistol. He cocked it, marching forward with single-minded determination.

The figure in the water didn’t move, didn’t react.

Dean paused in front of the path leading through the wheat, wondering if his shot could travel the distance. He knew it wouldn’t. He had no choice. Bracing himself, he stepped onto the path, walking quickly, not daring to break into a run.

The ends of the crop brushed against his skin, beating on his chest on ghosting over his arms. His heart was in his throat. Something was rushing over his ears, something like water.

He got to the other side of the rye field, his pistol still raised. The figure was looking right at him. He couldn’t see its eyes, nor its face, but he could feel them. The stare burned through him—and Dean didn’t know why, but it stole all the warmth from him. He felt as if the figure could see all his sins written on his face, that it was passing judgement, and it found him guilty.

That stare. It was the closest to Hell he ever wanted to get, but he’d never been more certain that he’d one day know how to burn.

Dean squeezed the trigger.

The pistol let out a puff, flash pan sparking but not catching. It was a misfire. “Shit,” he hissed, quickly cocking the gun again.

He never got the chance to fire.

Something wrapped around his neck and tightened. It yanked him backward, choking the air from him. Dean went down, hitting the earth hard. His vision whited out momentarily, a sharp and blinding pain ripping through his skull. He could still feel the stone under his head. His vision was blurry, the crops around him swirling as he blinked rapidly. His head was throbbing. He reached for the noose around his neck, but nothing was there.

Grunting and gasping, Dean lifted his head, looking at the water. The figure was gone.

He looked around, searching for whatever had grabbed him. There was nothing. No one. He tried to breathe, tried to collect himself enough to get up. Every time he attempted movement, a wave of nausea hit him.

The wind howled through the trees in the distance.

Dean’s breath evened out. He was freezing.

“Okay,” he told himself, garnering all his strength and will. He had to get up. “Okay.”

He was going to get up. He just needed a minute.

A hand shot out from the rye. It grabbed his arm, pulling him closer. Dean shouted. His adrenaline spiked, renewing his energy. Reflexively, he brought the butt of his pistol down on the wrist, loosening its grip.

Something grabbed him from the other side. It fisted at his shirt, trying to pull him in the opposite direction. Another hand sprang out to grab his ankle. Dean kicked, loud grunts escaping him as he thrashed.

“No!” he yelled, his strength quickly expending itself. His vision was hazy, his head pounding.

With his free hand, he grabbed his knife again and slashed, catching the hand pulling at his shirt. Something dark and rancid oozed out of the broke skin, but it let him go, withdrawing back into the rye. He rolled over, stabbing through the wrist of the hand on his arm. He ripped the blade out quickly, and the hand pulled back, disappearing.

He kicked out of the hold of the last one before springing to his feet, using whatever might he had left in him to run through the field, back to the house. Every touch of rye made his blood run cold. He could still feel the hands on him, could sense them reaching for him. Someone was still watching him.

He ran and ran, not stopping until he was out of the field. He stumbled to the dirt, falling on his hands and knees. He heaved in deep breaths, each one of them bringing a new spike of pain to the wound on his head.

Darkness was creeping into the edge of his vision.

Dean wanted to collapse. Instead, he put his feet under him and struggled to stand. He walked forward, eyes intent on house, and on the man within.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you're spooked :))) chapters 3 and 4 are coming at ya tomorrow!
> 
> as always, i appreciate any and all comments!


	3. Chapter 3

His vision was still swimming as he stumbled through the house’s front door. Distantly, he was aware of the warmth radiating off the fire, and of Cas calling his name, panic in his voice. Static was again humming in Dean’s ears, and blood was dripping thickly, slowly, down the back of his neck, slipping down the collar of his shirt, inching down his spine. He was gasping, fingers shaking, knees wobbling, heart threatening to rip itself from his breast.

Hardly any of it registered. The pain in the back of his head was all-consuming.

He practically fell against the table, palms slamming on the wood, causing it to rattle. He tried to keep his balance, which was much harder to do when he skewed his eyes shut. He shook his head, willing the pain away, forcing himself not to vomit.

Presently, the other sensations drifted in. The buzzing in his ears faded. Cas’ voice became louder.

“What are you doing to me?” Dean heard himself eke out on a choked gasp. But there was no power behind the question. He wasn’t certain he believed that Cas was behind this anymore. But he didn’t know who was. He didn’t know what to think.

“Dean? Dean, can you hear me?” Cas said, voice a little steadier now, but there were hints of fear quivering through it. Dean allowed the sound to pull him fully back into awareness. The flames in the hearth popped and whispered. “Dean?”

Dean exhaled through his nose. He opened his eyes wide to Cas. His vision blurred and doubled, splitting the man into two before the images merged back together.

“Yeah, I—” Dean rasped.

Concern was still lining Cas’ forehead, but he seemed to relax marginally. He said, “You’re bleeding.”

Dean’s throat clicked as he swallowed. Tentatively, he lifted one hand off the table and touched it to the back of his head, wincing at the tenderness there. When he drew it back, his palm was glistening with sticky blood. It made him woozier than it should have. “Dammit.”

“You need to stem the bleeding,” Cas said, like it wasn’t obvious—and maybe it wasn’t. Dean’s thoughts were still a little foggy. “And clean the wound.” Dean didn’t know how he was going to do that. He couldn’t see it. If only Sam was there, he could help. But he was glad Sam was far away from whatever curse Dean was experiencing.

“Let me help you,” Cas said.

Dean’s adrenaline spiked again, but only for a moment. When it faded, he thought he might collapse. “Help me?” he asked, acid dripping from his tongue. “You did this!”

Through the haze, Cas gave him a forlorn look, and it cut through Dean like a knife. “Dean, please. You don’t have to trust me, but you need help. I’m your only option.”

It was a bad idea. The last time Dean had undone Cas’ shackles, he’d tried to escape. In Dean’s current condition, running would be easy. But there was something genuine in Cas’ eyes, in his voice. Dean’s mind and heart were telling him different things—but, whether against his better judgement or not, Cas was right: he was his only option.

Dean’s head was spinning. He had only his heart to rely on.

“If you try to run, I’ll kill you this time,” Dean warned, just to be clear. Cas nodded, and didn’t show how he felt about the threat one way or the other. It was good enough for Dean. He took his keys off his belt and tried his best not to stagger around the table. He leaned over, swaying slightly in the process, his nose brushing up against Cas’ shoulder. For a moment, his senses were flooded with the scent of him. Dean shook his head and undid the restraints. The chain fell to the floor with a clatter. He deposited the cuffs on the table.

Cas pulled his arms around. Dean was distracted by the way he rolled his shoulders, wondering what the shifting muscles must look like beneath his cloak. Cas tilted his head from side to side, exposing bone and tendon and tanned skin. He rubbed at his bruised wrists. Dean’s mouth went dry.

It took him a second to realize Cas was standing up. Cas pulled out the chair, gesturing for Dean to take it. “Sit.” Dean complied easily, nearly falling back into the chair. Cas moved around him, and it made Dean’s pulse flutter. He told himself it was because he couldn’t see Cas anymore. Cas could have been doing anything, could have been preparing to knock him unconscious. Dean was trusting him, and he shouldn’t have been.

But then the hesitant touch of fingertips ghosted over Dean’s scalp, and his breath caught. And Dean didn’t know how to pretend that was out of fear.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for that to hurt,” Cas said. His voice sounded different somehow, now that Dean wasn’t looking at him. It was grittier; it felt like it was coming up from the earth beneath Dean’s boots. Dean nearly shivered at the memory of strong hands moving down his body.

“It’s okay,” Dean said, not correcting Cas.

His skin bumped when Cas’ touch returned. Cas wasn’t exactly gentle, but he was comforting, despite Dean’s best efforts to feel otherwise.

“It’s not as bad as I anticipated,” Cas reported, “but it will need to be cleaned. We’ll need water.”

Whatever soothing trance Dean had been lulled into dropped like a stone. He whipped around. “What?” It was a little strange, Cas standing over him, having to look up to meet his eyes.

Cas dropped his shoulders. “I’m not trying to escape,” he assured, and Dean told himself not to believe him. “You can come with me to find a well, if you’d like. Or, I think I saw a body of water at the bottom of the hill. But this is in your best interest.”

Cold stole over Dean as he thought of the inky depths, white skin, pinprick pupils, nails digging into his ankles as they dragged him under.

“No water,” he said. Because he didn’t want Cas escaping. Because he couldn’t stand the thought of water on his skin right now, dripping black down his neck, seeping into his skin, suffocating him.

“Dean—”

“Just—” Dean turned forward again and took up the cloth tucked among the shackles. Next to it, the bread lay bare, crumbs around it. He shoved the fabric toward Cas’ chest. “Use this.”

Cas popped his brows. “You’re being stubborn.”

“ _Cas_ ,” Dean said through his teeth.

Cas rolled his eyes. He took the cloth from Dean, and Dean caught a brief glimpse of the stark discoloration circling his wrist from the iron cuffs. Relief should have flooded through Dean, but all he felt was guilt. He set his jaw and faced forward again, eyes burning dryly while he watched the fire dance and sway.

He gritted his teeth at the first scrape of dry cloth on his scalp.

They were quiet for a long moment, Cas working and Dean doing his best not to be bothered by the itch of the fabric. But at least it gave him something to focus on—something that wasn’t hands grasping for him. His heart rate was regulated by the time Cas broke the silence with, “Are you going to tell me what happened?”

Dean didn’t want to think about it. In all his years as a hunter, he’d never experienced anything like this. It was powerful witchcraft—too powerful to be earthly. But he wanted to blame Cas. He wanted to blame _something_ —something tangible, something he could fight, something he could kill.

But the blame kept circling around, crashing back into Dean. Whatever this power was, it was targeting him. And, the strangest thing was, part of him had been expecting this. And it wasn’t about the usual risks of hunting, the knowledge that, one day, a prisoner could overpower him, could kill him in self-preservation. It was something else, something deeper, almost primal. The thought that, whatever this was, it had been circling him his entire life.

He watched the fire. It stung his skin.

Maybe Cas was right about his soul being damned. Whatever was coming for him, he thought he might actually deserve it.

“Dean?” It was said in a whisper. Cas’ hand was on Dean’s shoulder, a steady and warm weight.

Dean blinked out of his reverie. He shifted, tilting his chin back to look up at Cas. Cas looked down at him, a perplexed line between his brows.

“Do you really think God knows which souls are going to Heaven and which’ll go to Hell before we’re even born?” Dean asked, as if he were ready to wholeheartedly believe whatever Cas responded with. As for himself, Dean never liked that church teaching—the idea that fate was unavoidable, ironclad no matter what a person did to change it. Maybe it was because he knew where his own soul was headed. He wondered if all Hell-bound souls did somehow.

The lines on Cas’ face evened out. Dean didn’t know why he appeared remorseful. “I apologize for what I said earlier,” Cas whispered, like all of this was his fault. “I don’t think you’re going to Hell, Dean.”

Dean’s eyes volleyed across his face. It didn’t answer his question. Cas’ hands had stilled on him, and Dean found himself leaning into the touch.

“Why not?”

“I don’t . . . believe you to be a bad person,” was the answer, and maybe Dean would have laughed had anyone else said it. Dean had chained Cas up, put him in a cage, took him from his home, stuck him in a cold barn, was bringing him to slaughter. Those suddenly didn’t seem like righteous actions. “I don’t agree with you, but I do think you’re doing what you believe to be right.”

Dean couldn’t look him in the eye anymore. He brought his face back down, staring at his lap. “I’m not so sure,” he admitted. He thought about his mother—her kind smile, the way she used to hold him, sing to him. She’d been good. He remembered her only as good. He wondered what she’d think of him if she could see him now, could see all her sons had done in her name.

He wondered if a person like her was still burning in an eternal fire. It didn’t feel possible.

It had been a thought he buried long ago, never allowing himself to exhume it. But Cas had somehow dug deep, into the very heart of him, and brought it back to the surface. And maybe he’d been right to. Maybe it wasn’t something better off buried.

“You said your father worked with the church, right? That you saw what they did to witches?”

It was a strange thing. Cas didn’t answer verbally, and Dean wasn’t looking at him, but he could almost feel Cas nodding in the affirmative—just a small incline of the head, practically invisible. But the movement broke through the tight air humming between them.

“You really think most of them were innocent?” Dean asked. He heard the crack that ran through his own words.

Behind him, Cas shifted. He moved around the chair and crouched down in front of Dean. His hands were on Dean’s thighs, not grasping, just resting there. He tilted his head in, fishing for Dean’s gaze. But Dean was focusing on the bruising on Cas’ wrists—bruises that he’d put there. He couldn’t even justify why he’d done that anymore.

“Dean, what’s this about? What happened out there?”

Dean shook his head. He felt like he was going mad. Saying it allowed would only solidify that. He didn’t even know if Cas would believe him—or no, maybe he would. Dean trusted that Cas would, no matter what. And he didn’t deserve that.

Slowly, he brought his hands to Cas’ wrists. His fingers barely grazed the deep black discoloration before Cas hissed and jerked away, like a reflex. Dean jumped at the suddenness of it, at the realization that, somewhere inside of him, Cas was afraid of him. The worst part was, when he caught Cas’ eyes, Cas looked guilty about it.

He couldn’t have been half as guilty as Dean felt in that moment.

“Sorry,” Dean grunted, dropping his chin. He should have been begging Cas’ forgiveness. He didn’t know how.

“No, I’m . . .” Cas whispered, letting himself trail off. He stood a little taller on his knees and scooted in closer. He upturned his palms, showing his wrists. He offered them to Dean.

Dean braced himself. His pulse was pounding in his throat. His skin was buzzing. He reached out with both hands and cradled the back of Cas’ hands in his palms. He kept his touch light, just in case Cas wanted to draw away again. He could hear Cas’ breath tripping every now and again.

After a while, Dean closed his fingers around Cas’ hands, his thumbs pressed gently into the center of Cas’ palms. His fingertips brushed the back of Cas’ wrists, feeling the delicate bones and marred skin. He could sense Cas’ eyes on him, studying him. Dean didn’t think he was man enough to look back right now. Or worse. He didn’t think he’d be able to control himself if he didn’t. His body tingled, urging him to pull Cas onto his lap, to close the space between them. It was a dangerous thought.

“Maybe you’re right,” Dean said, his voice thicker than he wanted it to be. He cleared his throat. “About getting water, I mean. We could, uh . . . boil it. Wrap a hot cloth around these.” He indicated Cas’ wrists. “Might help.”

Cas nodded again. “Is there a well?”

There had to be, even though Dean didn’t remember seeing one. Maybe it was around back. He prayed they wouldn’t have to go fetch water from the pond.

Reluctantly, he let go of Cas’ hands. He looked up, trying for a smile. Miracle of miracles, Cas smiled back—a close-mouthed, fleeting thing, but his eyes sparkled with it. “Let’s find out.”

They walked out of the house, Cas just a step behind Dean, walking a little closer than he had to—and maybe that was for assurance, to give Dean some peace of mind that he wouldn’t try to escape. Or maybe it was for some other reason. Dean knew Cas wouldn’t try to run again. That wasn’t the reason his pulse was thudding an erratic rhythm against his chest, the reason his senses were on high alert. Cas’ hand brushed against his at one point by accident, and Dean’s entire being felt alight.

He tried to focus. He led Cas around the back of the house. It was the only place on the land he hadn’t been, so he figured the well must have been there. It sat not far from the house, a squat circle of stacked stones and a wooden plank covering it to keep any animals from falling in. A wooden bucket tied to a rope sat on the grass beside it.

It was a relief, not having to go back to the pond. Dean looked around at Cas, offering a triumphant grin. Cas didn’t exactly smile back, but he seemed pleased. Dean counted it as a win.

Together, they slid off the well’s cover, its wood scraping sickly against the rocks as it moved. Dean crouched down next to the well and lowered in the bucket, its sides scraping against the inner stone, echoing back up from the depths while it descended. The reverberations almost sounded like nails whispering across the stone, failed attempts of an unknown presence trying to claw its way back into the world.

Cas stood next to Dean, idly scanning their surroundings with narrowed eyes. Dean’s elbows knocked gently into Cas’ legs as he continued to lower the rope. Presently, there was the resistance of the bucket hitting water.

Dean began pulling it back up, feeling it laden. It moved inch by inch.

“Dean.”

Dean barely heard it, Cas said it so low. “Yeah, just a second,” he said distractedly. The bucket was heavy; he didn’t need Cas nagging him to hurry up.

“No, Dean,” Cas said, his voice still a whisper.

Dean ignored him. He pulled the bucket up, grabbing it by the handle to set it onto the top of the stones. The liquid inside sloshed and twinkled in the moonlight. Dean paid it no mind, ready to stand up and bring it inside, but some of it splashed onto his hand. He paused, having to do a doubletake. The water was tacky and weighted. It left behind a residue that tinted Dean’s skin.

“ _Dean_.”

Cas had gone stock still.

Dean brought his hand closer to his face for inspection. It smelled foul and sharp. Like decay. He looked down at the bucket, the liquid inside a deep black. It looked like ink. Dean wanted to retch.

Before he could do anything, Cas grabbed him by the collar and hauled him up. “Damn it, _look_!”

Dean’s attention snapped to Cas. His eyes were wide, skin pallid and drained. Dean instantly went cold. He wasn’t sure he wanted to see whatever Cas was staring at in the distance, whatever had put that look of barely controlled horror on Cas’ face.

Slowly, Dean turned, swallowing the lump in his throat. It took him a second to spot them—shadows near the tree line. Four people stood in a line across, their hands at their sides. The two adults were on either end, a man and a woman. Between them stood the silhouettes of a girl and a young boy.

Dean remembered their pinprick pupils under the water, the clammy feeling of their icy skin. His breath shivered, fogging before his face as it tripped out. His eyes began to water. He felt numb and frozen in place.

“This isn’t you, right?” he asked, just to be sure. He honestly didn’t know which answer would comfort him more.

He felt Cas’ eyes slide to him briefly before flickering back. He let out a sharp breath.

“Just checking!” Dean hissed. In truth, he had almost been hoping it was Cas’ doing. But it wasn’t, it never had been, and the realization of that was like steel on Dean’s spine.

“Why are they just standing there?” Cas whispered, but if it was fear keeping his voice low, Dean didn’t know.

Dean shook his head, at a loss for an answer. But he had an answer for Cas’ other question, the one he hadn’t spoken aloud. “I think . . . it’s the family that lives here. I’ve seen them before. They were—” He had to suppress another shudder. “When I was underwater. I saw them at the bottom. They were dead.”

He felt Cas go still. The air between them was thick with tension and aborted breaths. Finally, he said, “That’s not possible.” He sounded just shy of believing it.

Dean pulled out his pistol from the back of his pants and held it toward the family in warning. They didn’t react. He kept staring at them, not daring to blink, and even in the distance he felt their inhuman eyes on his skin. “We need to get back inside.”

He didn’t know what good that would do, but if the family decided to attack, he and Cas could have a defensive barrier. It would make Dean feel better, if nothing else. And it would also make him feel better to know Cas had his back.

He reached into his belt again and pulled out his knife. He dared to look away from the family long enough to meet Cas’ eyes. He held up the handle of the knife in offering. “You know what to do with this?” he asked, words weighted, something unspoken just beneath them. He was choosing to trust Cas, and he needed Cas to trust him, too.

Cas nodded, expression stern. He wrapped his fingers around the handle and repositioned himself to hold it out. Dean let his eyes linger momentarily before turning back to the family. They hadn’t budged.

“Okay,” he said. Blindly, he felt behind him for Cas’ arm. His fingers wrapped around Cas’ wrist before he remembered the bruising. He brought his hand down, fitting his palm into Cas’. Cas squeezed back, his hand cold but strong. “Let’s go.”

He backed up toward the house, tugging Cas along with him. He tried not to stumble as he moved and kept his attention on the family at the same time. Cas followed after him easily, knife still held at the ready.

The family remained still.

And then, at once, the two adults stepped forward. Dean froze again, is heart skipping at the same moment. Cas’ grip on his hand tightened.

They watched as the adults turned around and walked back between the trees. Dean didn’t know whether to be cautious or relieved. He stayed on his guard, wary of the two children continuing to look at them from the distance.

Cas’ hand slipped out of Dean’s, and for a panicked moment, Dean thought Cas was being ripped away from him. But sense caught up to him, and he saw Cas marching forward in the direction of the children.

“Cas!” Dean hissed, trying to get him back. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“They’ll come back for us if we don’t strike first,” Cas said, voice deep and clipped.

Dean balked. “Are you crazy?”

“No.” He looked around at Dean. “And I’m not a witch. If I can prove that to you, I’d like to.”

Dean didn’t know what to say to that. His eyes were wide, mouth gaping as he stared, stricken, at Cas. He wanted to tell Cas to stop it, that he didn’t have to prove anything to him. Dean would believe him. Dean _did_ believe him.

But before he could say so, the lilting sound of laughter was carried toward them on the breeze. It sounded like it was coming from the children. The remaining shadows spun around to the trees and bound for the woods. They disappeared through the swirling blackness between the trunks.

It took Dean half a moment to realize Cas was running after them. He shot across the field between the house and the woods, sprinting at full speed.

Dean’s stomach opened up into an abyss. “Cas!” he shouted, and he didn’t know if Cas was brave, determined, or just stupid. Whatever the case, Dean ran after him, pushing himself as fast as he could, hoping to catch Cas before he made it to the trees.

He didn’t.

Cas vanished into the darkness right before Dean’s eyes.

Dean meant to run in after him—thoughtlessly—but his legs had a mind of their own. He skidded to a halt just outside the line of trees. His breath was coming out in labored bursts, and he didn’t know if it was from exertion or terror.

“Cas!” he called, desperately pleading for an answer. There wasn’t one.

His eyes wildly searched inside the trees. He didn’t see any movement. Beyond, there was only the darkness of the unknown. An owl was hooting mournfully in the distance. From somewhere deep in the forest, a vixen was shrieking.

Dean cocked his pistol and stepped into the trees.

He listened out as he wandered, treading through the thick trunks that stretched upward into the pitch-black sky. Fog hovered between the trees, drifting like specters in the darkness, causing his vision to waver as though he were underwater. Gnarled roots curled up from the earth, threatening to trip him with every step. He whisper-shouted Cas’ name every couple of yards, but he never got a response.

Though, he was certain he wasn’t alone. He felt eyes on his back, causing his skin to bump and the hair on his neck to stand on end. He gnashed his teeth. At some points, he thought he heard the light tread of footsteps behind him. Every time he whipped around, pistol first, he was alone.

Something to his left snapped, and Dean nearly jumped out of his skin before he realized it was only an acorn shedding from a tree limb. He ran his palm down his face in an attempt to stifle his fear. It didn’t work. He needed to find Cas. They needed to get out of the woods. They weren’t safe at night.

“Dean!”

Dean reacted at once. “Cas?” he shouted. He tried to listen past the thundering in his chest.

He held his breath, and it took a second before he heard it again.

“Dean!”

But that wasn’t Cas’ voice.

Dean’s blood ran cold.

“ _Sam_!”

Nothing.

“Sammy!”

“Dean! Help!” The voice sounded even further away.

It was a trick. It had to be. Whatever had been calling out to him all night was drawing him in. But what if it wasn’t? What if it had Sam? What if it had him all night, and Sam was in danger? Dean couldn’t take that chance. He’d rather die.

He steeled himself. “Sam! I’m coming!” He shot off in the direction of Sam’s voice, calling out to him again. He tried to pinpoint the direction it was coming from.

High above, a bird was giving off a grunting, garbled call that echoed off the gray trunks. It sounded faintly like laughter.

“Dean!” That was a different voice. It came from somewhere behind him.

Dean slid to a stop among the dead leaves. He listened out, chest heaving. “Cas?” he whispered, and then, “Cas!”

“Dean! Where are you?”

“ _Dean_!”

Dean’s head swiveled from side to side. He didn’t know what to do. He could go back, to find Cas, who he _knew_ was real, or he could continue on to Sam. He should have picked Sam without a moment’s hesitation. The choice should have been easy.

Dean’s head was spinning. The static nothingness was hissing in his ears again.

He told himself Cas was okay. He was shouting for Dean, which meant he was alive, wandering through the woods. Sam was calling for help. Dean turned and ran in the direction of his brother’s voice.

“Sammy!”

He didn’t know where he was going. He swayed and stumbled on his feet, ears ringing louder with every step. Beneath it, he could still hear Sam’s distant cries, and Cas’ far-off calls. And there was screaming, too. A woman’s screams. They sounded all too familiar, pulled right from his nightmares and memories.

Dean thought of fire and ash. He could smell it now, tickling his nostrils. He could feel heat tinging on his skin—his cheeks, his forehead, the back of his neck. Around him, the fog had thickened, until it didn’t look like fog at all; until it resembled smoke.

He stumbled forward, catching himself on a large boulder. His palms stung upon impact.

Something was glowing orange in the corner of his darkening vision.

Dean breathed hard, trying to find his strength. His elbows collapsed against the hard stone. His feet slid out behind him until his knee hit the rock.

Gulping in air, he lifted his eyes to look at the rock. Dripping candles were arranged in a circle in the center on the flat stone, each of them lit. Their tiny flames danced and shuddered. Something was etched within the circle, a sigil carved into a rock. Dean blinked, trying to get himself to focus. He recognized the symbol as a pentagram.

His breath seized as he realized he had stumbled onto an altar.

The ringing in his ears went up in pitch suddenly. It was painful, drowning out all else. Dean shouted, his hands flying up to his ears, but it was too late. The sound had stopped, taking all else with it. He couldn’t hear anything—not the haunting tune of the birds, not the seeds falling from the trees, not the woman’s screams or his name being called.

There was a rushing sound washing over his eardrums again, beating a pressure against the inside of his head. The sound of being underwater.

Dean shook his head, trying to right himself.

“Cas!” he shouted. He heard his own voice, but it sounded like it was coming from behind glass. It sounded like it wasn’t quite his own.

He couldn’t catch his breath. There was a thickness in his chest, rising cold and brackish up his throat.

He had to get away from that altar.

He turned around, still gripping onto the stone behind him to keep himself upright. The dismal flames from the candles might as well have been a wildfire with how quickly they heated up his back.

Blinking around, he knew he had no idea where he was. He didn’t know how to get out of the forest, back to the house. He didn’t know where Cas was, either.

His eyes continued to scan his surroundings, until they caught movement. At first, he didn’t know what he was looking at. There was a shadow poking out from behind a thin, spindly tree trunk. It was a hand, palm forward, long fingers flexed. Slowly, it reached out, revealing a bare arm.

The trunk wasn’t wide enough to conceal a body behind it.

Dean looked on, his limbs completely stuck in place.

Another arm came out from the other side of the tree. They wrapped around the trunk, sickly white flesh against the dark wood. The nails dug into the trunk and scratched downward, breaking and bleeding as they went.

“Dean,” he heard. It was Sam’s voice, but it was all wrong. It sounded warped, laughing.

At once, the candles behind him blew out, plunging the world into darkness.

Dean could feel his legs again. Immediately, he shot off in the opposite direction of the hands. He didn’t know if he was running further into the woods or back to the house, and it didn’t seem like it mattered. As long as he was running toward Cas.

He shouted Cas’ name, calling out frantically. He never got a response.

“Cas! Castiel!”

From somewhere up ahead, there was a fiery glow lighting up the trees. It was dim at first, and then it got stronger. Dean could see a bonfire through the trunks up ahead.

He stumbled to a stop again, grabbing onto a tree for purchase. Everything inside of him told him not to take another step, to turn back and run in the opposite direction of the fire. But there was something else, too—some urgent pull daring him to go on. He had to grip the trunk to stop himself from moving forward.

His thoughts were lagging, something thick and gray wafting through his mind. Something white-hot touched his skin. He hissed and clamped his hand down on his neck, the flesh feverish to the touch. It was overwhelming, the heat.

He almost missed the sound of footsteps on the leaves.

Dean whipped around, eyes immediately landing on a shape walking toward him. A cloak was draped over him, causing shadows to fall down his back.

Dean wanted to topple over with relief. “Cas,” he breathed out. He didn’t think he’d ever felt so safe in his life.

Cas moved steadily closer. Dean watched him, the way his shoulders were set back as he walked, the gait of each step. He didn’t know why, but something felt wrong.

The burning sensation spread down his back. It tingled in his arms.

“Cas?” he said again, voice quavering.

Cas stopped moving at once. The draped shadows over his back spread out, stretching and unfurling into wings.

Dean fell to his knees, the scalding on his skin suddenly too much. He wheezed, trying to breath. His lungs were full of smoke.

His hand instinctively wrapped around the metal in his palm. He remembered that he wasn’t powerless.

With all his strength, he picked up his arm, aiming at the winged figure. The flash pan sparked as the gun went off. But it was too late. The figure disappeared. The bullet cracked against a tree, sending splinters everywhere.

And Dean was still suffocating.

He pulled himself to his feet and ran. He didn’t stop running.

He heard someone calling his name behind him, but he couldn’t be sure who it was—if it was even real. The only real thing was the feeling of fire licking at his limbs. Every step was agony, akin to treading on red coals.

Dean ran until he broke through the tree line. The rye fields swayed in the breeze. The house stood silently beyond. The pond was glistening in the moonbeams.

Dean was on fire. He needed to make it stop.

He ran for the pond. Someone shouted his name behind him, but it didn’t stop him. His feet nearly tripped over themselves in his haste. When he was close enough, he flung himself headfirst into the pool.

He’d expected to hear his flesh sizzle and steam, like plunging hot iron into a bucket. But the heat immediately drained from him, leaving only ice. It stunted his limbs, paralyzed his insides. It was disorienting and painful. Dean couldn’t move, at the mercy of the sudden change.

And then he heard a muffled splash. Something had broken through the surface.

A moment later, arms were wrapping around his torso. Dean wanted to kick out, to scream. He couldn’t. He looked down at the arms embracing him. Someone was against his back. And he thought it was over. The arms would drag him down. He’d drown.

Shoes brushed against his shins, and Dean realized someone was kicking. He wasn’t being dragged further to the depths. He was being pulled up to the surface.

It reminded Dean to fight. Sensation returned to his arms. He spread them out, pushing back the water, helping Cas pull them both up into the air.

When they reached the surface, Dean loudly gasped in the oxygen. The ringing in his ears was gone. His mind was clear. His body was shaking violently in the cold.

Behind him, Cas’ hands were scrambling to keep hold of him. He tugged at Dean’s shirt, audibly catching his own breath as he treaded water. He pulled Dean toward the side of the pond. Together, they dragged themselves onto the grass. Dean rolled over, gaping up at the silk-spun clouds around the moon.

“Dean,” Cas breathed, anxiously pulling Dean into a sitting position. Water was dripping from the tips of his hair and sliding off his clothes. His lips were blue and teeth chattering. His eyes were wild as they searched Dean for injury.

Dean had never been so happy to see anyone.

When Dean could speak again, the first thing he said was, “Cas.” He grabbed Cas’ shoulders, pulling him into a fierce hug.

Cas grunted at first but then, tentatively, his arms closed around Dean’s middle. Dean nuzzled into the heat of his body, beneath the cold later of water. He wanted to share in it. His body was trembling beyond all control, and he wanted so badly to chalk that up to his internal temperature.

“You’re alright,” Cas said, voice soothing, but he was spooked. Dean could tell. “Here.” Briefly, Cas leaned away. He came back with his cloak, bundled haphazardly on the grass in arm’s reach. Cas must have taken it off to not weigh them down underwater. He draped it over Dean’s shoulders and went back to hold him.

Dean sniffled, his nose running against the cold. He nuzzled into the crook of Cas’ neck, seeking both warmth and comfort.

“God, I thought we were goners,” he whispered against Cas’ water-logged skin.

Cas rested his chin on the top of Dean’s hair. Dean could feel his head shifting as Cas looked around, still cautious of their surroundings.

“We’re alright,” Cas told him. Dean believed him.

He snuggled in closer to Cas, his arms tightening their hold. They stayed like that, unmoving, for a long time.

///

They were laid out in front of the hearth, Cas’ cloak spread out under them. Upon returning to the house, they’d stripped out of their wet clothes and hung them on the table and chairs to dry. The only thing they left on were the bottoms on their long johns, and Dean had to stop his eyes from straying to the expanse of tanned skin, broad shoulders, rolling muscles, and the lean form of Cas’ torso. It was nearly impossible. He constantly caught himself staring at the hollow of Cas’ collarbone, or the way Cas’ firm stomach rose and fell with breaths, or the freckle on his chest. Sometimes, he caught Cas looking at him, too, and it flooded him with a mixture of embarrassment and smugness.

But then Cas had asked him about what happened in the woods. Dean had recounted his story, and it left him feeling nothing but cold despite the fire before him. As if Cas had sensed it, he sidled in closer until their shoulders nearly brushed. Dean could feel the body heat between them. He wanted to lean against him.

“What about you? Did you see anything?” Dean asked. He’d crossed his legs beneath him, and he was hunched over, elbows resting on his knees.

Next to him, Cas had tucked his legs into his chest, his arms wrapped around them, chin resting on his knees as the firelight played upon his face. He went still at the question, and Dean regretting asking it, but he had to know. He had to know he wasn’t going crazy.

“No,” Cas said, and it was both a relief and a disappointment, until Cas continued, “I heard something. A voice.”

Dean studied his profile as Cas continued on. He appeared shaken, despite the way he outwardly remained calm.

“It called my name. I followed it. I . . . I don’t know why.” He took a steadying breath and let his eyes fall closed. “It took me to—there was a bonfire in a clearing.”

Dean had almost forgotten about that. He’d seen firelight on the trees. “Yeah, I think I saw that.”

Cas nodded against his knees. “I didn’t see anyone, but the voice was loudest there. It . . . it asked me if . . . if I wanted to be free. It offered it to me. And I—Dean, I wanted to say yes. I was tempted.”

Dean swallowed. He could almost picture it. It was easy to imagine, with the flames lighting up Cas’ face much like they were now. He imagined how much strength it must have taken to say no. Dean almost didn’t understand it. Cas could have been free—from Dean, even from Michael. He could have escaped.

Dean was almost afraid to ask: “Why didn’t you?”

Cas’ eyes opened. He shrugged. “I heard you shouting. You needed help. So, I ran. I caught up just in time to see you jump into the water.”

Dean’s mouth fell open. He didn’t know what to say to that. _Thank you_ seemed to fall short. Even if it didn’t, Dean wasn’t sure he could speak. Something had crashed into him—a cresting wave. He was being pulled down into the undertow, and he felt more calm than panic.

Cas had come back for him—after everything. Dean didn’t deserve it. How could have ever thought Cas was a witch, a murderer? That Cas was anything but good?

When Dean found his voice, all he could say was, “Yeah, well, I’m glad you did.”

Cas let out a short breath of almost-laughter. “So am I.” He turned his head, resting his temple on his knee, and looked at Dean. Dean looked back, warmth still enveloping him. He was lucky, he thought, to have found Cas. As for Cas, he was probably the unluckiest bastard who ever lived. Dean smile faded at the thought. If it wasn’t for Dean, Cas would be free.

“Here,” Cas said suddenly. He picked himself up from the floor. Dean watched him walk to the table, pick up the loaf of bread, and bring it back. He plopped down, offering the food to Dean. He’d sat even closer to Dean than before, Dean couldn’t help but notice. “Eat something. It may warm you up.”

Dean didn’t know if he could stomach anything right now, but he took the bread anyway. “Thanks,” he muttered, ripping off a piece. He chewed, feeling the weight of it on his tongue, but it didn’t taste like anything. All it left was a sour taste in the back of his throat when he swallowed. Still, it was food.

Cas was eyeing it. Dean remembered that Cas hadn’t eaten anything all day. He’d rejected food twice now. Afraid he’d do it again, Dean ripped off another piece and held it out in offering. Cas didn’t seem surprised by it. His lips pressed together in what might have been a grateful smile. He slowly took the bread from Dean’s hand and brought it to his lips.

Dean watched him, the softness in his chest blooming.

Cas’ throat worked when he swallowed. He said, “Dean, those people we saw . . . you really believe it was the family that lives here?”

The question caused reality to tumble back in, effectively breaking the moment. Dean turned back to the fire. He rolled his piece of bread between his fingers. “Maybe. Or something that looks like them.” He shook his head. It felt like he only had questions. “Or, I dunno, maybe _they’re_ the witches.”

Cas breathed out heavily through his nose. He said, “I don’t believe in witches. But I do believe in the Devil.”

It wasn’t a comforting thought, especially when Dean recalled the winged man he’d been seeing. “So, what, you’re saying this is him?”

Cas shook his head and shrugged, just as clueless as Dean. “Maybe.”

“Well, that’s just great,” Dean said dryly, because the alternative was letting the gravity of that notion overwhelm him.

Cas snorted a bitter laugh. “It isn’t ideal.”

“Well, whatever it is,” Dean said, getting back on track, “it’s been here since we got here. It’s like its . . . after me. Or—maybe it was waiting for me.”

Cas looked at him again, brows scrunched. “Dean, why would you even say that? This isn’t your fault.”

Dean’s gut lurched. He didn’t deserve Cas’ trust. If it weren’t for him, Cas wouldn’t even be there. Dean had put him in harm’s way, and he’d do anything to get him out. But there wasn’t anything he could do. Cas had no idea what he was wrapped up in. He had a right to.

“Cas,” Dean said. His throat closed, trying to prevent him from saying any more. “I . . . I kinda wasn’t honest with you. About . . . my mother. How she died.”

Cas leaned in a little closer. He brought his hand up, closing it gently around Dean’s shoulder. Dean shivered a little at the contact. Cas’ hands were cold, but all it did was warm Dean up.

“What are you talking about?” Cas asked him.

“She did die in a fire, and technically it was because of witchcraft, but . . .” Dean couldn’t look at him. “She was burned. She was the witch.” He closed his eyes tight. He could still see the crowd that had formed in the village square. His mother was tied to a stake, fire licking up her dress. He remembered the smell, the way it got stuck in the back of his throat and made his eyes water. He remembered her screaming, the crowd chanting as she burned. He remembered Sammy, just a baby, wailing. He remembered his father—just standing there, watching it happen, letting it happen. That was the day John had vowed to never let witchcraft tear a family apart, as it teared apart his own.

But he’d been wrong. They weren’t saving families. They were the ones ruining them.

“Dean . . .” Cas whispered.

Dean didn’t want to hear the sympathy, or the platitudes. They would be wasted on him. He cut Cas off: “When my father would get into a bottle—he’d talk. Sometimes. Once, when he was really drunk, he told me that . . . that my mother had sold her soul to the Devil to save him. Because he got sick or—something. I was too young to remember. But she turned to magic to save him.” Dean couldn’t deny it had been a good reason. She’d been trying to save the man she loved. Was she evil for that, or just desperate? Could Dean really blame her? “And . . . Cas, I get it. I mean, I think about someone I . . . someone I care about dying. I’d probably do the same thing.”

Cas’ hand was still on him. He stayed silent, absorbing the information.

Dean felt a stinging pressure behind his eyes. It thrummed in his temples. “And what if I’m like her? My father always said I reminded him of her—and I _tried_ not to, Cas. I really tried.” God, had he ever. He did all he could to leave his mother’s memory behind, but it was hard to do, especially since his whole life had been built upon her death. Maybe now, it had finally caught up to him. “But what if I can’t outrun it anymore? What if that _thing_ is here for me?”

“ _Dean_ ,” Cas said, his grip tightening. Dean looked at him quickly. The jerking movement made a tear slip down his cheek. Cas’ eyes were fierce, practically glowing. “Listen to me, this is not your fault. Whatever’s happening, you have nothing to do with it. You are _good_. I’ve seen it.”

Dean wanted to believe him. His heart nearly broke when Cas said, “And you aren’t alone. You don’t need to fight this alone, Dean. I’m here. And, if this is the Adversary, we’ll meet him together.”

Dean scoffed. It was a noble thought, but it was foolish to think they could defeat this. Witches, Dean understood—or, at least, he thought he had. But this? “Yeah, what we gonna do in the face of the damn Devil?”

Cas’ expression fell. His eyes dipped as he thought. “I don’t know. But . . . maybe there are forces stronger than evil.”

Dean drifted in closer to him. He could feel Cas’ breath of his cheeks. He didn’t want to be afraid. He thought, maybe, he could borrow some of Cas’ bravery. “What forces are those, huh?”

Cas shook his head slightly. “I’m still trying to understand them myself. For me, they were only theoretical before tonight.” He lifted his eyes, latching on to Dean’s. He said, “Before you.”

Dean could hardly breathe under the weight of those words. His face hovered close to Cas. If he turned only slightly, their noses would brush.

“So, what do we do?” Cas asked him, voice low. “Do we leave?”

It was tempting, but Dean wasn’t sure this power would just let them go. It was probably stupid to try. “And go where? Back in the woods? That’s not a good idea, not until daylight, at least. Best thing to do is wait it out.” It sounded like a terrible plan. “And stick together.”

Cas didn’t argue. “Together,” he said. When he nodded, the tip of his nose brushed against the side of Dean’s, causing a thrill to go through Dean’s body.

“Together,” Dean echoed again, just before he closed the space between them. Cas kissed him back at once, the press of his lips firm and welcome.

Something in Dean beat against the inside of his brain, some kind of shame. It told him this was wrong. They shouldn’t be doing this. It told him to trust his old instincts—that Cas was a witch, that he’d hexed him.

Before Dean could smother the thought, he ripped himself away, his palm flat on Cas chest, pushing him back. Cas’ jaw went hard, but his eyes were full of fear. Dean couldn’t keep his expression shuttered. Because Cas _had_ done something to him, but it wasn’t magic.

Dean wanted him, God help him. No prayer could undo that now.

He pulled Cas back in before he could think better of it. He deepened the kiss, parting his lips. Cas opened his mouth to him, letting their tongues slide together. Dean put his hands on Cas’ face. Cas’ grip on his shoulder tightened, and his other hand went to Dean’s chest. Dean felt his body pulse, heat wrapping around him and pounding in his thighs, in his dick. He kissed Cas until they were both breathless.

Dean pulled away again, gently this time, with a hum, to catch his breath. His gaze tracked along Cas’ face, catching on the swell of shiny, pink lips before flickering back up to bright blue. “You’re sure you didn’t put some kind of spell on me, right?” he joked.

Cas swirled his thumbs on Dean’s chest, sending a shiver down his spine. A lopsided smile was on his face; his eyes were darkening. Between them, he whispered, “I should ask you the same question.”

Dean grinned and kissed him again.

Cas leaned back, lowering himself to the floor. Dean followed after him, his hand cradling the back of Cas’ head and lowering him down. He crawled on top of Cas and buried his face into his throat, sucking on the skin of his neck. Cas let out labored breaths, his hands smoothing up and down Dean’s back.

Dean gave into the pressure curling in his gut. He rolled his body into Cas. Cas moaned. He parted his legs, letting Dean slot their hips together. Their bodies moved into each other.

Dean reached down, tugging at Cas’ underwear until they were past his thighs. Cas shuffled, trying to work them down further until he could kick them off. Meanwhile, Dean took off his own garment. He sat back on his ankles, eyes flickered up and down Cas’ body, vision snagging on his heavy cock curling up to his stomach.

He climbed back on top of Cas, kissing him hard. Cas swallowed Dean’s moans and grunts while they rutted fast against each other.

“Dean,” Cas growled, tearing his mouth away. “Dean, touch me.”

Dean slowed his body, trying to comply. He reached between them, taking both of them into his hand. Cas pulled his bottom lip between his teeth, and Dean was mesmerized by it. He worked them both together, watching the way Cas’ brow tensed in concentration.

He rested his forehead against Cas, losing himself to the sensation of their dicks sliding together. His body felt like gun powder, heating to the point of explosion. Cas opened his eyes, boring into Dean’s. He gasped between them. His fingers were latched onto Dean’s sides.

Dean felt his muscles tensing. He was edging closer and closer to spilling out. And maybe Cas was, too. He was letting out low, choppy sounds. Not long after, his body locked up, and he was coming into Dean’s hand. The sight of it caused Dean to spill over. He worked them both through it, his mind spinning with pleasure as he came down.

When it was over, he dropped down fully onto Cas, lining their bodies up. Cas grunted, his arms snaking around Dean’s waist and locking him in. Dean breathed in Cas’ collar, his lungs filling with Cas’ scent.

He thought maybe Cas was a little bit magic, after all.


	4. Chapter 4

The straw-filled bed was a lot more comfortable this time around, and a lot warmer, too. But that could have been from the shared body heat. Dean’s head was pillowed on Cas’ shoulder, his front pressed against Cas’ side. Their ankles were tangled together, and Dean’s arm was thrown over Cas’ torso. He felt the light tickle of Cas’ fingertips idly brushing his forearm. Cas’ stomach rose and fell in steady breaths. Dean could hear his heartbeat thumping calmly beneath Cas’ skin.

He grunted fully awake, his body tensing and stretching before quickly loosening again. Cas’ fingers stilled, his body stirring slightly under Dean.

Dean blinked his eyes open. The room was still as dark as it was when they’d crawled into bed together, and the dim candle set on the nightstand behind Cas was only an inch or so shorter than Dean recalled. He couldn’t have been asleep for very long—maybe an hour. But he felt more rested than he had in ages.

He lifted his head off Cas’ shoulder and knuckled at his eyes to rouse himself fully. When he dropped his hand back to Cas’ stomach, he folded it around Cas’ bare ribs. Dean briefly wondered if he could get away with slipping his hand under the covers to draw out another orgasm from Cas.

His eyes swept up to meet Cas’, already knowing he’d find Cas staring at him. “Hi,” he said, smiling sleepily.

The corners of Cas’ mouth tugged up. His eyes were tender, full of adoration as they scanned Dean’s face, and Dean wasn’t sure he deserved such reverence, but it spread warmth through his chest nonetheless. “Hi,” Cas said back, voice gentle.

Dean hid his blush by turning to the door to the bedroom. In the next room, he caught sight of a small sliver of the window. The sky was still dark, but the faintest touch of the sun’s first light was bleeding into the horizon. Distantly, he could hear early birds chirping. It was nearly day.

“Would you look at that,” he said, shifting back to face Cas. “We made it.”

Cas nodded, his smile turning sad, but Dean didn’t want to talk about why. Not yet. He needed just a few more moments to pretend.

“Yes, we did,” Cas said. He had bags under his eyes.

“Did you sleep at all?”

Cas pressed his lips together guiltily. “No,” he sighed. “I think I was still too rattled from earlier.” Dean couldn’t blame him for that. It was a miracle he’d been able to fall asleep himself, but he felt secure in Cas’ arms. “But I . . . I kept an eye out for any threats while you slept. There were none.”

Dean’s expression softened at the thought of Cas watching out for him, but he really wished Cas had gotten some shuteye himself. He lifted himself up, tilting his head slightly to hover his lips next to Cas’. “Look at you, my guardian,” he joked before slotting their lips together.

Cas kissed back deeply and languidly, his hand coming up to cradle the back of Dean’s head, careful of the cut there. The wound was sore and stiff now, but it wasn’t anything Dean couldn’t handle. He ignored it in favor of kissing Cas thoroughly. He wanted the kiss to last—for them to stay suspended in time—but eventually they had to pull away to breathe, and the reality of their situation settled in.

It brought with it a sadness so vast it nearly felt like emptiness.

Dean couldn’t look Cas in the eyes. His gaze fell to the lower half of his face, but he could still feel Cas’ eyes tracking over his face, drinking him in. “You can’t stay, huh?” Dean had been trying to think up a way for them to make this work, a way for them to stay together.

There wasn’t one. Sam was on his way back. There’d be questions if they didn’t bring Cas to Salem, and that was something they just couldn’t do. Cas wasn’t a witch. He’d die in the trial, or he’d be tortured. Dean couldn’t bear either possibility.

He needed to let Cas go.

His chest ached under that knowledge.

Cas frowned. He nodded somberly. “I don’t see another way.”

“Yeah, me either.” Dean’s voice was thick. He tried to swallow, but it was hard to do. But he tried to be strong—for Cas. He cleared his throat. “Sam’ll be here soon. You need to be long gone before that.” He hated the idea of sending Cas into the woods alone, especially after last night, but it was nearly daylight. As long as he was out by nightfall, he’d be okay. Dean had to believe that.

“What will you tell him?”

Dean couldn’t lie to Sam. Sam would see right through it anyway. “The truth. He might call me a damn fool at first—which is why you need to be far away—but I’ll convince him,” Dean said. “And then we’ll tell the governor in Salem that you . . . got the jump on me and escaped. Might even be believable with this.” He gestured to the wound on the back of his head. “So you need to be _really_ far away by then. I can buy you some time, but they’ll come looking for you.”

It wasn’t the perfect plan, but it was something. It was better than sentencing Cas to death.

Cas gave a low scoff under the weight of everything. He was scared. Dean saw it, even if Cas tried to hide it. It didn’t make Dean think any less of him. He still thought Cas was the bravest idiot he’d ever known. “Where will I even go?”

Dean didn’t know. “Try south—out of New England. Maybe head for Virginia.” It was the skeleton of a plan. An insane notion struck him then. He fit his hand under Cas’ jaw, locking their gazes. Dean looked deep into blue. “I’ll meet you there,” he promised.

Cas sucked in a breath. He shook his head. “Dean . . .”

“I will,” Dean promised. He couldn’t live this life anymore, the life his father asked him to, a life so full of death. He’d been running from his mother’s legacy for so long. Now that it had caught up with him, Dean wasn’t afraid. It was all bullshit, anyway. He wouldn’t be the reason for more innocent people’s deaths. “I don’t know when—but I will. And we’ll get on the first boat to Europe.”

Cas’ eyes were glistening in the candlelight. Emotion was flickering through them, but Dean didn’t know if it was profound remorse or love. As for Dean, he felt both.

He put his other hand on Cas’ face. “You’re gonna be free, Cas. I swear to God.” He tried to smile, but it was a few watts dimmer than he’d intended. “And I’m gonna be right there with you.”

For a second, it looked like Cas might argue again. He didn’t. He nodded hopefully.

Dean kissed him again, sealing the promise. He wished they had more time—but they’d get it soon.

They got out of bed, Dean already chilled to the bone without Cas’ body heat. They went into the front room of the house, where the fire was weakening. Dean would have to put more wood on soon. Their clothes were still slightly damp, but they dressed anyway. Dean ensure Cas still had the knife he’d given him. As Cas put his cloak back on, Dean went to the table and picked up the last of the bread.

“Here,” he said, offering it to Cas. “Take this. It won’t last you forever and you’ll get sick of it quickly, but it’s something.”

Cas nodded, taking the bread and putting it into the pockets of his breeches. Outside, a red line had formed on the horizon. The sun still wasn’t showing its face. Above, the stars were still spread out into a canvas of black. The light was reflected off the water in the pond below the hill. It was tinted with the color of blood.

Dean walked Cas to the door. “Stay off the roads,” he advised.

“I will,” Cas told him. He stood outside the threshold, Dean just inside. Cas turned to him, face lined. “Come with me now,” he said. He wasn’t begging, simply requesting, like he’d accepted anything Dean wished.

And Dean _wished_ he could. His mouth opened, and he almost said yes. But he couldn’t just leave Sam without seeing him again, without making him understand. What would Sam do if Dean just disappeared? He’d run himself ragged looking for him—or worse, he’d think Dean was dead.

No, Dean couldn’t do that to Sam. He’d stay. And maybe Sam would come with them to Europe. Dean could convince him. They were all each other had.

“You can’t,” Cas said, crestfallen, answering his own question. “Your brother.”

Dean’s expression pinched. Cas would never know how sorry he was. “I _will_ find you,” he said.

Cas nodded, but he didn’t look like he believed it. He looked like he wanted to, though. He stepped in quickly, grabbing the back of Dean’s neck and pulling him into a deep kiss. Something shuddered in Dean’s chest. His throat was thick and eyes building with pressure, but he told himself to force it down.

Too soon, Cas broke the kiss, stepping back. “Goodbye, Dean,” he said, his voice rumbling through Dean’s body. Dean swallowed. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t speak. All he could do was watch Cas turn and run, his cloak streaming out behind him.

Soon, Cas was nothing but a shadow darting across the hill. Dean could barely see him—and then he disappeared into the trees. Everything went still.

Dean tensed his hands into fists, suppressing the urge to run after him, and trying to beat back the hope that Cas would reemerge from the trees and come back to him. Neither of those things could happen. Not yet. He told himself he’d see Cas again.

He closed the door and paced back to the table, sitting heavily in one of the chairs. Now that he was alone, the exhaustion of last night was creeping back into the edges of his consciousness. He rubbed at his eyes. The gray dawn was spreading out across the floorboards, the world still a creature of muddled shadows. The embers in the fireplace winked, filling the room with the dense smell of smoke.

It was stifling suddenly. Beads of sweat formed on his brow. He rubbed at the feverish skin of his neck.

A sound broke through the stillness. It was quiet at first, muffled. It took him a second to realize he’d heard it at all. He sat up straighter, forehead lining, and strained his ears toward the garbled noises coming from outside. It sounded like chickens clucking.

Dean was on his feet immediately. Slowly, he walked to the door and pulled it open. The clucking continued, growing louder the closer he got to the shed. The chickens were waddling nearby their coop, pecking at the dirt and hay in search of food. Dean looked around, his heart in his throat. He remembered their broken bodies, the ash on their wings.

Fear stole over him like fingers running down his spine.

This wasn’t over. Whatever was after them was still there—lingering, waiting, watching him from within the trees.

And that meant . . .

“Cas.”

Dean turned and sprinted down the road, loose dust kicking up under his boots. He cut through the grass, stumbling slightly down the incline, and headed straight for the woods. Unlike last time, he didn’t even pause to consider the danger before rushing inside.

He knew what was among these trees, and letting it take Cas scared him more than anything else.

It was much darker inside. The weak line of sunlight on the horizon was blocked off by the dense canopy above. The trunks were woven tightly together, moss and dirt packed in on tangled roots. Any light that did manage to break through was swallowed whole by the dense gray fog. Inside the woods, it might as well have still been midnight.

“Cas?” Dean called out as loud as he dared. His voice came out hoarse, halfway to a whisper and halfway to a shout. He crept deeper into the trees, careful about where he was treading so that he didn’t slip on fallen leaves or trip on a root. With every step, his breath ratcheted higher up into his throat, getting stuck there. The back of his neck was pulsing hot with the sensation that whoever was watching him was right on his heels. The thought alone kept his shoulders tensed, his fists clasped, his feet buzzing with the need to run. He hardly blinked while he scanned his surroundings as he passed, but he couldn’t see much through the mist.

Around him, the woods were quiet, eerily so. He heard neither the flapping of wings nor the scuttling of creatures in the brush. He remembered what his father had taught him about hunting game—that, when the deer and rodents were out of sight, the wolves were lurking; when the birdsong was silent, something with talons was waiting to swoop in. When life in the trees was still, beware.

Something rustled behind him. Dean whipped around at once, his hand flying to retrieve his pistol in his waistband. It wasn’t there. He must have forgotten it back at the house in haste to find Cas. He cursed inwardly, not daring to speak aloud. He didn’t want to draw attention—not until he found another weapon. A rock, maybe, or a sturdy and sharp fallen branch. Something to defend himself from the teeth and the talons.

Another sound reached his ears. He quickly spun in its direction, but found nothing moving. The same whispering of leaves came from behind him again, as if the creature was circling him. Meanwhile, another sound was filling his ears, the rushing stillness pouring over him, the slight static hiss of nothingness. Dean realized he was holding his breath.

He caught movement in the corner of his eye. A shadow of a woman passed slowly through the trees. The leaves crunched under her bare feet, the mist shrouding her pale, naked flesh. Dean watched her, wide-eyed. She didn’t look back, but he recalled the veiled, pinprick eyes all the same. She walked behind a trunk, and did not emerge from the other side.

His skin was chilled, prickling and shivering—but there was a heat that ran down his spine. Something at his back, a hovering presence. There was hiss of breath. He felt it on his neck.

Dean ran. He didn’t look back. He didn’t know what he was running toward. Nothing. Not the house, not to safety. He had no destination in mind. And yet, it felt as if he were heading for one. He thought it was Cas—but that didn’t feel quite true.

He kept running, bounding over the roots and rocks, his heart thundering in his chest. He tried to call out for Cas again, but the name got lodged in his throat.

Ahead, another shadow, this one of a man, stepped out from behind a tree. Dean skidding to a halt, his feet nearly sliding out from under him on the loose leaves. He caught himself with his palm, now stinging and covered with dirt. He changed directions and ran faster, until his knees ached and his lungs burned for air.

When he couldn’t go any further, he pressed his back against a tree, its trunk thick enough that nothing could reach around it without warning. Dean tipped his head back against it, doing his best not to breathe too loudly. He failed. The sound of his panting echoed back to him, bouncing off the surrounding trees. It was muffled by the rushing in his ears.

He needed to find a weapon, to find Cas, and the get out of the woods. To get far away—from the curse hanging over him, from the farm, from Salem. He vowed not to let Cas go without him again. They’d find freedom together.

The thought mustered courage in Dean’s chest. He stood up from the damp, rough bark at his back and stepped forward. His foot connected with something hard. Dean’s heart skipped again, and he pulled in a sharp breath, instinctually looking down. In the lowlight, he could make out the shape a dagger. Dean attempted to swallow, and he tried even harder to convince himself that he was just seeing things. He knew he wasn’t.

He crouched down and picked up the blade from the dirt. It was his knife, the one he’d given to Cas. There was something glistening on the steel. Dean touched it, and the blood left a sticky residue on his fingertips. It was still fresh.

“Cas,” he whispered, the word coming out broken. Haplessness washed over him like a river’s current. He tightened his fist on the handle, desperately telling himself that Cas was still alive. He’d only dropped the knife. But he’d escaped. He was still out there. Dean would find him.

His heart burned bright under that purpose.

Dean would find him.

He stood up, knife still in hand, and took a charged step forward.

Something wrapped around his neck, pulling tight on his throat. It cut off his air. Dean gagged, his hands flying to the noose around him. Before he could pull it off, the rope was yanked backward. His spine slammed against the trunk. He kicked out, legs flailing uselessly as they were lifted off the ground. The bark caused a coarse friction at his back while he was dragged upward.

He pulled hard at the noose, trying to take the pressure off his throat, trying to stop himself from suffocating. Choked guttural sounds eked out of him instead of breath. He tried to dig his heels into the tree for leverage but found none. Darkness was creeping in along the edges of his vision.

Something cold and metal brushed up against Dean’s cheek as he struggled with the noose. He remembered the blade in his hand. Bracing himself, he reached up, the rope digging in further into his throat. He wrapped his hand around the knot at the back of his neck in hopes to take some pressure off. With his other hand, he blindly waved the knife around until it hit the rope. He began to saw.

Pressure was filling up his head—felt in his cheeks, his eyes, his temples. His vision was overcome by starbursts and speckles and blackness. His tongue felt too big in his mouth, and his strength was failing. His ears rang loudly. The ground was very far away.

Suddenly, the rope snapped. Dean hit the forest floor before he even knew he was falling.

He coughed as he heaved in oxygen, his lungs on fire with the effort. He blinked rapidly, eyes watering as his vision corrected itself. He got to his hands and knees, still gripped his knife for dear life, and kept gasping. Slowly, he became aware of the pain in his right elbow and the soreness in his ankle. He must have landed on them, but their aching was nothing compared to the throbbing on his neck. He reached up and tore the noose over his head, flinging it away. It felt like it was still around him, choking the life from him, bruising his skin and constricting muscle and sinew.

Forcing himself not to think on it, he sat back on his heels and looked up, wanting to catch sight of whoever was in the tree, whoever was on the other side of the rope. He saw nothing, only the cut rope shivering in the breeze.

And then something else.

A pair of bare feet. Dean blinked, telling himself the darkness was playing tricks on him. But, the more he focused, the more the shape of the body swinging from a high limb bled into view. He scanned the canopy, gaze snagging on another woman hanging from another tree. There were more bodies above him, limp and lifeless, skin gray, feet dirty. They were horrible. He didn’t want to look.

He made himself. He searched every face, losing count of how many were there. And—thank God, he thought for the first time in a long time, thank God—he did not find the one he dreaded seeing.

Cas was still alive.

Dean gripped the knife tighter and scrambled to his feet, ignoring the spike of pain that went through his ankle. He walked as fast as he could, the pain subsiding with each step, until he was confident enough to jog. He tried calling Cas’ name again, but the only thing he heard in return was the dull ringing in his eardrums.

Until the rustling sound reached him again.

Dean turned toward the noise, holding out his knife, refusing to be stalked like prey. The young boy’s shadow was drifting through the trees. Then, to the side of Dean, there was the daughter. Dean gritted his teeth, telling himself he was stronger than two children.

He looked around, waiting for them to show themselves again. The rustling sound was louder. Dean caught sight of the man, closer than the other two had been. He stumbled backward, putting space between himself and the shadow, trying not to feel unnerved that he was now vastly outnumbered.

A twig snapped behind Dean.

He whirled around to find the woman standing between two trees. She was shrouded in darkness, only her outline visible. She didn’t move. Dean’s eyes widened. He was aware of the presence at his back once more. He tried to keep one eye on the woman as he scanned the trees.

There was the daughter—standing, staring. And the boy. The man was the closest, but Dean still couldn’t see his face.

In his mind’s eye, he imagined their unnatural pupils, the white that surrounded them.

He couldn’t take all four of them. Not alone. He needed Cas.

“Where is he?” he called, using all his willpower to keep his voice from shaking. The family remained unmoving.

Dean held his breath. There was sweat on his hairline, on the small of his back, in the creases of his throat. Sweat and dirt. His body felt overheated. The fire swept through him, overcoming his heart with blind fury.

“Where the _fuck_ is he?”

As one, each of them stepped forward.

Dean bolted. He promised himself he wouldn’t stop—not until he found Cas. Not until they were together again. He imagined it: rushing into Cas’ arms, hearing his voice, panicked but relieved, breathing, “Dean? Dean.” Dean imagined the awe in Cas’ eyes, the realization that Dean had come back for him, that they would find a way to escape together.

But the static in Dean’s ears was deafening now, and his lungs felt full of smoke. The fog around him was getting thicker, and the darkness was deepening the further he ran into the woods. No matter where he turned, he caught glimpses of the family. They walked between the trunks. They stood still. They watched him.

Again, he got the sensation that he was running toward something. Or no. He was being led there.

There was something up ahead—tiny flickering lights cutting through the mist. Their yellow glow was hazy at first, until at last Dean recognized them as candles. They were sticking out of the dirt in what appeared to be a half-circle. Or perhaps they went all the way around. Trees were still blocking Dean’s view of the whole picture.

In the center, stood a large, flat boulder. And Dean knew he’d been led straight for the altar. He knew he should turn around, change direction, do anything but go where the family wanted him to.

But then, as the mist drifted and parted, he saw there was something on the altar. Half of it was hidden by a trunk. Dean skidded to a halt when he realized he was looking at a pair of boots. Legs. They were bent at awkward angles beneath the dark fabric of their trousers. They were unmoving.

Dean froze, breath stolen from him. He didn’t dare blink.

Dread was crawling under his skin like a thousand insects. They scurried down his spine, burrowed into bones.

He didn’t know what possessed him to walk closer. He hadn’t meant to. His legs moved on their own, driven by the desperate part of his mind that muttered, _it’s fine. It’s not him. It will be someone else. He’s alive. Cas is alive. It’s not him. You will find him._

He thought it even as he got closer, when he saw a familiar piece of tan fabric draped over the rock, hanging heavy off the side and sweeping at the underbrush.

_It’s not him. Cas is alive._

He rounded the tree—and nearly collapsed.

Cas was laid out on the altar, staring directly at Dean. His blue eyes were sightless, unblinking, staring through Dean but seeing nothing. A veil was over them, reflecting the candlelight. His face was expressionless and his lips were parted. There was no blood, but there was a layer of ash caked on his skin, dusting his hair, dirtying his clothes. His neck was tilted to the side—bent much further than usual, the delicate bones visible under the skin, snapped.

“Cas,” was all Dean heard. It took him a moment to understand he was the one saying it. It spilled from his lips over and over again, an echo in the dark.

He stumbled closer to Cas, his knees shaking under his weight. He almost fell against the altar.

“Cas, wake up,” he muttered. He patted at Cas’ cheeks. There was no reaction. “No. No, Cas, wake up!”

It couldn’t be him. Cas was alive. He’d escaped. They were going to meet in Virginia. They were going to sail to Europe and be together.

This wasn’t real. This was a dream. Dean was numb. Everything that happened was happening to someone else, and he was simply watching it from afar.

He wrapped his arms around Cas’ body, hauling him against his chest. Cas moved limply, wilting heavily forward against Dean. His head slumped to the side, just hanging there. Dean held him close. Cas was still warm. He clung to that fact, telling himself it wasn’t too late. There was still time.

But there wasn’t. It _was_ too late. Dean had let him go, and he couldn’t save him.

And, just like that, he was back inside his own skin. His ears rang again. His flesh burned and bubbled. His lungs filled with something thick.

Gently, he lowered Cas back down to the altar. Dean fixed Cas’ neck and legs, he situated Cas’ arms at his sides before picking up one of his hands. He laced their fingers. Cas stared up at the canopy, and Dean knew he should close his eyes—but he couldn’t. Not yet. He couldn’t bear the thought of never seeing blue again.

“I’m coming back, Cas,” he promised, voice steady. He brought Cas’ knuckles to his lips. Against them, he whispered, “I promise, I’m coming back for you. But first, I’m gonna kill them. I’m gonna kill ‘em all, Cas. Every last goddamn one.”

He said the words—heard them aloud. But part of him knew they weren’t true. All it would get him was revenge, all he’d do was follow in the footsteps of his father. But what good was that? Cas would still be dead. But what if he didn’t have to be? The family wanted Dean. They could have him.

For a price.

“I swear to God, Cas,” he said. It felt like a lie.

He placed Cas’ hand back at his side. His eyes lingered on Cas’ face, wishing Cas would look back. He didn’t.

Drawing himself to full height, Dean gripped his knife and turned. He stalked back into the trees.

“Where are you?” he shouted. His voice echoed back to him. “Show yourselves!”

He stood still, bracing himself. He waited.

There was a presence at his back. He felt its breath.

Dean breathed in through his nose. He didn’t turn around.

The thought of his father, of his mother. Revenge would get him nowhere.

Dean let the knife slip from his grasp.

“Do it,” he said through his teeth.

A hand clasped around the back of his neck, fingernails biting into his skin. Another pulled at his shirt. There was another. It clamored at his wrist. Two more clawed at his shirt.

The hands dragged him backward, his legs reflexively kicking out, his body fighting. He skewed his eyes tight, railing against the fear clogging his throat. Desperation sat like a stone within him.

He heard his father’s voice. Remembered his father’s teachings. John said prayer was their most powerful weapon against evil—but Dean didn’t want a weapon. He didn’t want a shield. He wanted his soul to be clean before it became tarnished beyond repair.

He closed his eyes tighter, tried to focus on his thoughts—not on his heels dragging through the leaves, not of the hands around him, not on Cas’ lifeless eyes.

_O God, may Your Spirit speak in me that I may speak to You. I have no merit, let the merit of Jesus stand for me. I am undeserving, but I look to Your tender mercy. I am full of infirmities, wants, sin; You are full of grace . . ._

He couldn’t focus. His mind kept drifting back to the pain.

_I confess my sin, my frequent sin, my willful sin; all my powers of body and soul are defiled: a fountain of pollution is deep within my nature. There are chambers of foul images within my being; I have gone from one odious room to another, walked in a no-man's-land of dangerous imaginations, pried into the secrets of my fallen nature . . ._

He prayed harder, muttering the words, making them sputter on his lips. They didn’t go lower than that, into his heart, into his soul.

_I am utterly ashamed that I am what I am in myself; I have no green shoot in me nor fruit, but thorns and thistles; I am a fading leaf that the wind drives away; I live bare and barren as a winter tree, unprofitable, fit to be hewn down and burnt. Lord, do You have mercy on me?_

It was wrong. It was a lie. He knew it was a lie. His heart belonged to Cas now. And his soul certainly didn’t belong to God.

And maybe the church was right, after all. Maybe everything was predetermined. Maybe Dean was always being led toward this place.

Suddenly, the hands let him go. Dean fell to the ground, his eyes flying open. There was no one standing over him, no pinprick eyes staring down at him. He gasped, rolling over. Wildly, he scanned his surroundings, but caught sight of no one—nothing.

Why had they left him?

“No,” he breathed out. They couldn’t have left him. They wanted him. He had to let them take him. It was the only way to save Cas.

He didn’t know what to do.

He clawed at the dirt, digging deep, catching rocks and roots, until they felt as if his nails might break off. He heaved, breath hot against the earth, his heart a rapid tattoo against his ribs. A scalding flush overtook the back of his neck, making his skin aflame. His vision swam, no matter how he tried to blink it right.

A twig broke in front of him. Dean’s neck snapped up at the sound, vision fixing on a moving shadow emerging from the fog. Something was rising up Dean’s throat—something thicker than bile. It was a shout, a scream. He couldn’t find his voice to let it loose.

 _Run_ , his mind was begging him. _Run!_

He locked up, refusing the order. His knuckles cracked and tensed as he gripped the dirt tighter, holding himself in place.

The shadow came forward, inky black as its shoulders swayed with every step. Dean felt his breath leave him.

Slow steps carried the shadow on, until its features came into view. The blackness slithered from its face, down its shoulders, and Dean’s lips parted at the sight of a familiar tan cloak.

Cas knelt before him, blue eyes still darkened by shadow as they looked Dean up and down. They sightless, intense. “Hello, Dean,” he said, voice low. There was something about it. It no longer felt as if it were reverberating through the earth, but that it was coming from the darkness itself. Like something else was using Cas’ tongue to speak.

And yet, Dean felt calm wash over him.

“Cas?” he breathed out, certain this must be a dream. The corner of Cas’ lips quirked into a gentle smile. Dean strained to keep his head upright, to continue to look Cas in the face. “I thought . . .” He blinked, the image of Cas, body broken, flashing behind his eyes. “You were dead.”

A vertical line formed between Cas’ eyes. He tipped his head to the side. “No, Dean,” he said in that voice—even and measured. His lips moved to form the words. Something urged Dean not to believe them. Something else inside him instantly trusted them.

Cas was alive. Cas had come back to life.

Dean heard himself laughing. Or maybe crying. His shoulders shook with it. His cheeks stretched. His eyes stung. “I should have been here, Cas,” he said, a tremor going through his voice. “I should have been here to protect you.”

Cas reached out, hands firm and steady as he picked Dean up from the dirt. Dean let himself be hauled up to a kneeling position. He allowed Cas to gather him into his arms. Dean collapsed against him, his arms encircling Cas, desperate to keep him. He skewed his eyes shut. If this were a dream, he’d do anything to never wake up.

“I’m here,” Cas told him, one palm cradling the back on Dean’s head. His touch was as cold as a corpse. Dean felt icy water drip down his spine. He shivered and nuzzled in closer to Cas’ chest, craving the warmth there. All he found was more bitterness, but he didn’t care. He could pretend.

He kept his eyes closed, ignoring the thickness in his throat, ignoring the buzzing on his skin and the scratching at the back of his mind.

Cas was saying, “You’re here now, Dean. You found me.”

He was saying, “I’m alive, Dean.”

He was saying, “People like us don’t die.”

It wasn’t good enough. It wasn’t enough to know Cas was still alive, that he was free. It wasn’t enough, not if they weren’t together.

Dean sniffed, collecting himself, and pulled out of the comfort of Cas’ arms. He met Cas’ eyes, just as mesmerizing as he remembered. He couldn’t look away, and he couldn’t come up with a single reason as to why he should. “I should have gone with you,” he said, praying Cas could forgive him—that he would hear him.

Cas’ eyes tilted downward, sad and gentle. He placed a hand on Dean’s cheek. Dean ignored the biting chill. He turned into the touch. “You can,” Cas told him. Dean wanted to believe that. “It’s not too late. You can come with me, Dean. We can be together. Would you want that?”

Dean nodded.

Cas’ smile cut a slash into the shadows on his face. His eyes sparkled. “Then, come with me,” he said, like it was simple.

And it _was_ simple, Dean realized.

Cas stood up, and Dean felt hollow in his bones without his touch. But he wasn’t empty for long. Cas extended a hand, offering his aid. Dean looked up at him—couldn’t look away—and slipped his palm into Cas’ to be pulled up.

Cas threaded their fingers together before turning and tugging Dean through the trees.

“Where are we going?” Dean asked without really intending to.

“Follow me,” was all Cas said.

Dean kept his gaze on the back of Cas’ head, taking in the broad width of his shoulders, the way his hair curled behind his ears. He paid no attention to where Cas was leading him, nor to the gray tree trunks they passed. He wished Cas would turn around again so that Dean could see his eyes. He wished the woods weren’t so dark. Dean longed for blue.

And then, through the trees ahead, the flickering orange glow of the bonfire danced along the bark and underbrush. It was subtle at first, but soon it bathed the world. Dean could feel the singe on his cheeks, even in the distance. It felt warm, welcome. It felt like it had been waiting for him.

The light outlined Cas’ silhouette, darkening the fabric of his overcoat. It looks like black wings were draped down his back.

When the stepped out into the clearing, Cas let his hand fall away. Above, the sky was red; below, the flames were the very same. Cas looked ahead at the fire, then turned to Dean. Dean stared back, trying to stamp down the nerves, the doubt. Cas had brought him there for a reason.

But that tickle in the back of his head was persistent. He couldn’t stop himself from voicing his concern: “What are we doing here, Cas?”

Cas didn’t seem angry. In fact, his expression softened. “I told you—we’re going to be together.”

Dean still didn’t understand. He watched as Cas moved closer to the fire. The flames rose up high, casting embers up toward the purple dawn. The crackling overtook all the other sounds of the wood. Cas seemed small beside the fire as he crouched down beside it.

Dean couldn’t tell from behind Cas, but it looked like he was reaching into the flames. Dean nearly rushed forward to pull him away. But then Cas drew back slowly. He stood up. Something was cradled against his chest as he turned around.

“Come here, Dean,” he beckoned.

Dean didn’t even think. He did as he was told.

As he came closer, he saw the object in Cas’ arms was a book. A thick, black-leather bound tome. It looked old, but pristine. Dean’s jaw clenched. He wanted to run away. His feet continued on to Cas.

Cas laid the book out flat on one arm and opened it, flipping through the dried, yellowed pages. Dean could see lines of words on the pages—all of them written in black ink. All of them in different handwriting. He didn’t know what any of them said, but he suspected they were names.

He couldn’t move. He couldn’t speak. His skin felt too tight around his body, and he didn’t know how to escape it. He didn’t even think he wanted to. Because Cas was there. Cas was with him. Cas was free, and Dean could be, too.

When the book was opened to a fresh page, Cas lifted his head, blue eyes alight as they searched Dean’s face. They were distant. They were piercing. But something was wrong about them. They were nothing but an imitation.

Slowly, Dean said, “You’re not Cas.” He knew it was true. He’d known it was true the moment Cas found him.

Cas tilted his head to the side in question, because that’s what Cas _would_ do. He asked, “Who else would I be?”

Dean didn’t answer. His eyes were stinging again.

“It’s okay, Dean,” Cas said. He turned the book around, offering it to Dean. A quill rested in the binding. “We’re so close. We can be together, I promise. All you need to do is sign your name.”

Dean’s insides furled with heat—oppressive, destructive. His fingers itched toward the book.

“If I do,” he began, a weight on his chest, water in throat, “I’ll see Cas? He’ll come back? We . . . Me and him . . . we’ll be together?”

Cas nodded. “Yes, Dean. Today, tomorrow—” He raised one hand, brushed his knuckles against Dean’s cheek. Dean ached for him. “Even at the end of the world.”

In his heart, Dean knew it wasn’t a lie. Even if it felt like one.

He swallowed. He closed his eyes, feeling something wet slip down his cheek. Cas needed him. They could find each other again. They could be free together.

He opened his eyes. “I don’t know how to write,” he said.

Cas’ smile didn’t show in his eyes. “I can help you,” he answered.

Dean stared at him for a moment. All he saw was blue. He nodded, and lifted the book from Cas’ hands. It rested in one palm, a heavy weight to it, heavier than it should have been. He picked up the quill with his other hand, wrapping his fingers around it. It transferred something tacky onto his fingertips, something that smelled rotten. Dean paid it no mind.

A muscle in his jaw twitched when Cas rested his fingers on the back of Dean’s. It felt like nothing—just shadow and wind and fog, just a breath of air dissipating into the autumn sky. It was no solid thing. Dean wouldn’t have known it was there at all if he wasn’t looking at it. But there was a memory of touch.

It wouldn’t be a memory for long.

He’d be with Cas again.

He let Cas guide his hand. The quill touched the dry page. They traced curves and lines, marring the otherwise blank, tan parchment. When it was done, Cas’ hand drew away. Dean let the quill fall and roll back into the binding.

He stared down at his name, at the words on the page, at the flickering firelight illuminating it. The ink was still drying, wet and black.

**END.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, uh..... that was pretty fucked up, huh?
> 
> would love to hear your interpretations in the comments!


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